


Instinct

by savorvrymoment



Category: The Strain (TV), The Strain Trilogy - Guillermo del Toro & Chuck Hogan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexuality Spectrum, Dom/sub Undertones, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Naked Cuddling, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: A fix-it fic of sorts.  Vaun survives the attack on Palmer, though barely, and is still the authoritative Sun Hunter and voice of the Ancients when Quinlan arrives on the scene.  However Quinlan's history with the Sun Hunters is long and difficult, and their reunion is not at all simple or easy.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started shipping these two shortly after Vaun died and Quinlan was introduced, so this is my version of a fix to the canon situation. I've bent some facts and events to suit my needs for this story--artistic license and all. Mostly follows parallel to tv show canon, and disregards book canon. Planning on this being about three or four parts. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> And moment of honesty: If you're looking for Quinlan/Vaun porn, this isn't it. Rated M for some intimacy later on, as well as violence as per the show. But as Vaun is a strigoi in this fic, no one is going to be doing the wild nasty for what I feel are very obvious reasons. ;)

Quinlan can tell he’s being followed, can hear the distinct sound of combat boots scuffling on concrete all the way from the entrance of the compound down into the bowels of the building.  It’s barely audible, but Quinlan has too many centuries of experience and he _knows_ , can practically feel the vibrations of movement running through him.  He stays alert, but his stalker is far back and making no move to attack.  So he presses on, forward, to his goal.

Of course, as soon as he enters the open room and lays eyes on the three Ancients, the metal-on-metal sound of a rifle behind cocked behind him brings him up short.

“You are approaching ancient and powerful beings,” comes a familiar throaty voice, accompanied by a pointed rattling purr, and Quinlan almost can’t believe it.  _Almost._  

“Vaun.”  Quinlan turns around slowly, hands purposely far from his weapons, and finds himself looking at _companion, confidant, nestmate…_    He’s not prepared for the feelings that flood his chest at the sight of the other creature, at the smell and the feel of him.  The sensations come back like long lost memories.  “I see not much has changed around here,” Quinlan comments, choosing his words carefully.

Vaun falters, lowering the rifle that had been aimed at Quinlan’s head, though his expression is unreadable.  He’s hidden away behind layers of black SWAT gear and a black hood—always in black, always in layers, it seems only the style changes over time.  “You,” Vaun greets roughly.  “I should have known—that smell.”

“I’ll choose not to be insulted,” Quinlan answers.  They stand in silence then, or relative silence at least.  Vaun rattles and purrs, as vocal as ever, and the noises make Quinlan’s stinger flex and twist in his throat.  He finds himself returning the rattling on instinct alone.

“Have you come here for something?” Vaun asks abruptly, the tone of his voice combative.  And Quinlan would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t know why.  Vaun continues, “If you’ve just come to argue or bark orders, then you can turn around and leave.  As you might imagine, we’re a little busy.”

His impulse is to contend this point, to defend himself and his actions and _argue._   But this will get him nowhere, and he came here for a reason. “I need information,” Quinlan answers, and pointing to the Ancients, “I need information from Them.”

One of the Ancients gives a shrill little call, the first noise from Them since Quinlan has approached.  Vaun shifts, inclining his head, though his hood is pulled down too low and Quinlan still can’t see his face.  “Then ask,” Vaun says eventually with a rattling growl.  Then, after a few slow, unsteady steps forward, adds, “Ask _respectfully._   We’ll tell you what we can.”

Quinlan watches the other strigoi move, notices the shakiness, notices the limp, but doesn’t comment.  Just says, “I need Sun Hunters.  _Human_ Sun Hunters that can move during the day.  Do you still have access to such things?”

Vaun chuckles, the noise devolving into his rattling purr.  “As a matter of fact,” he answers after a moment, “We do.”

~*~*~

_Quinlan meets Vaun for the first time in the late 14 th century, in Eastern Europe, following the trail of a nest of strigoi.  He assumes it is a nest of the Master’s minions, having found no reason to assume otherwise, and when he tracks them to a small cave tucked into the countryside, he enters without hesitation.  He’s surrounded by four strigoi immediately, their swords drawn, but then Quinlan’s sword is already drawn too.  He’d been expecting this, waiting for it.  He grins slightly to himself, swinging his sword in his hand, and advances._

_But as he steps forward, the strigoi behind him barks, “Defend yourself, subdue him, but do **not**_ _harm him—They want him alive!”_

_It’s the first obvious sign that something is different here, that maybe this nest is not what Quinlan had expected.  He takes a deep breath as his sword collides with the sword of the combatant before him, and he smells, feels, listens…  No, things here are very different.  These creatures may look the same as the Master’s minions, and he can hear the worms crawling beneath their skin, but they do not smell or feel right.  Something here is wrong._

_He breaks away from the strigoi before him with the clash of swords, and turns to lunge for the strigoi behind him—the one who had given the order, their apparent leader.  It blocks Quinlan’s attack much the same as the other had, and Quinlan takes advantage of his position, leaning his weight into his weapon.  The strigoi rattles at him, and Quinlan snarls back, “Who are **They**?  Who wants me alive?”_

_“The Three,” the creature answers him easily, without hesitation.  “My Creator, and His siblings.”_

_And it’s then Quinlan believes he understands.  Regardless, he asks, “Your Creator?  Meaning…  The Master?”_

_The strigoi all but growls at him, and answers, “You insult me, Born.”_

_“Then, what—who?” Quinlan presses, still leaning against their clashed blades.  It’s a rhetorical question, really, because he already knows.  He’s already figured this one out.  Of all the places he could carelessly blunder into, he’s stumbled into an Ancient’s nest._

_“Put your weapon down, Born, and I will take you to Them.  You can speak to Them yourself,” the creature says.  “Or keep fighting, and They will drag you away unconscious.  It does not matter to me or Them.”_

_Quinlan is silent for a moment, considering, and finally says, “You have me at a disadvantage—you have a name for me, but I have no name for you.”_

_A small smile graces the creature’s face, and he replies, “I am called Vaun.”_

_“Then Vaun,” he says, slowly letting his weapon slide away from Vaun’s.  He’s relieved when Vaun lowers his sword at the same time as himself—these creatures still have him at a disadvantage, so the show of good faith is reassuring. There are four of them to his one, at least the four he can actually_ see _.  Who knows how many more of them are hidden away within the tunnels of this cave, not to mention this “They” Vaun speaks of…_

_He may be walking into his death, but Quinlan has a feeling—one of those feelings that tells him this is right, beneficial, and valuable.  “Then Vaun,” he tells the other, “take me to this Creator.”_

_Vaun nods, the tiniest of smirks gracing his features, and motions Quinlan further into the cave._

~*~*~

Quinlan finds the humans easily enough, the information from the Ancients leading him directly to the Professor and his companions.  Or perhaps it was Vaun’s information—at times, Quinlan is unsure whom exactly he’s talking to with that one…  Regardless, he finds what he needs.

He almost finds the Master, too, if it were for the humans’ blundering idiocy.  And as if that error isn’t enough, the humans then begin wanting _from_ Quinlan as well.  Eph wants his son back, the Professor wants the Lumen, and Fet, well…  Fet seems to want Quinlan dead, or at least far away from them all.  At least Eph is easy to manipulate, and Fet is easy enough to disregard.  The Professor, however, is not so easily swayed, and he is sure Quinlan can help him acquire the Lumen through the Ancients. 

“I do not wish to speak to them,” Quinlan tells them, while standing stoically amongst the group in the Presidential Suite of an abandoned hotel. 

Abraham sighs dejectedly, all while Fet stares in exasperation and Eph is simply… inebriated.  He knows their assumptions as he to why he does not wish to return.  They all know his disagreements with the three New World Ancients, they know his hatred for Their blind adherence to a broken and forgotten truce.  Quinlan has not kept silent about these facts.  But the situation they’re in now is a difficult one, and Quinlan is the only one here who had spent years living amidst the Ancients’ nest and the odd society therein.  He is the only one here who has viewed their warped sense of loyalty first-hand.  He does not expect the humans to understand.

There is a lot, however, that he keeps from the humans.  He does not tell them that he’s already been there days earlier, that he’d found them all with Their help.  Vaun said he’d spoken directly with the Professor, and Quinlan knows what Vaun usually means when he says he’s ‘spoken’ to a human.  Quinlan feels like mentioning an affiliation would not be a good idea. 

He also does not tell them of his hundreds of years of a past with the Ancients and the Sun Hunters, and if the Professor has read about it or heard about it in his years of research and hunting, then he doesn’t mention it.  And this—his history with the nest—is the real reason he’d rather not return.

Just seeing Vaun again before—seeing him and hearing him and smelling him—had made him _feel._   It had made him feel things he’d rather not feel again, and think about things he’d rather not think about again.  Days later, he’s still affected by it.  He should be focused on the task at hand, not fretting over an Ancient’s nest and his place within it. 

There is a reason he’d left in the first place, and he does not wish to go back.

~*~*~

_Quinlan learns more in his first two weeks staying with the Ancients and Their progeny than he had in the last two centuries._

_He supposes it is to be expected.  The Ancients have been around since before Quinlan was born, since before **any** of the strigoi infected now were turned.  They’ve been there since the beginning of this problem, since this apparent truce was first formed and then subsequently broken.  They know things that no one else on this earth know.  _

_The Ancients do not speak, at least not aloud, so Quinlan speaks and learns most from Vaun—or through Vaun, as it were.  But he also learns by observation, by watching Vaun and the rest of the nest, watching their dynamic, how they behave and interact and react._

_There is definitely an order to things, a hierarchy of sorts.  Vaun without question is the leader of this small group of hunters, their commander and general.  There are eighteen strigoi in the group, ranging from centuries old to only a few years—Quinlan can guess a vague age by their smell, though it’s mostly an estimation.  Vaun is definitely the oldest by at least a century, and Quinlan wonders if this is why he has been chosen as their leader, or if it is more due to his favor amongst the Ancients.  The Old Ones are certainly fond of the creature—and that includes all three of Them, not just his Progenitor._

_But Vaun does not just lead them into battles, does not just lead them in trailing the Master’s minions and in hunting meals.  He is also the nest’s caretaker, their warden and protector.  Which brings up an entirely different point of contention for Quinlan—he has been sure for nearly a millennia and a half that these creatures were only capable of negative emotions, of anger and hatred and fear and anxiety.  But Quinlan watches Vaun with the rest of his nest, and he watches the creature feel emotions that he’d been sure only humans and he himself experienced._

_Vaun expresses affection for the rest of the nest, with an obvious special fondness for the older strigoi, the ones Quinlan assumes he has fought and lived with for hundreds of years now.  He expresses worry and empathy for a fellow strigoi when the creature is injured while they hunt for a meal—all of which seems pointless to Quinlan seeing as the creature heals within minutes of the blow.  And in addition, he shows a distinct happiness while in the presence of the Ancients, especially speaking to the One Quinlan assumes is his Creator._

_And it is not just Vaun… it is **all** of them.  They **all**_ _show affection for each other, and they **all**_ _show concern for each other.  They watch each other’s backs while in combat, and do not fight over bodies when they feed.  They talk to each other, joke and laugh and share stories, and Quinlan tries his best to wrap his mind around it all, but he struggles._

_And Quinlan does not trust them entirely.  He spends the first daylight on guard duty—there are always two or three of the creatures assigned to guard the cave during the day.  He does not wish to fall asleep amidst them only to wake up with a knife to his throat or a stinger in his neck, and he can’t shake the deep worried feeling.  So he spends that first daylight awake, then the second daylight awake, then the third, then the fourth…_

_He can go without sleep for a while, but by the fifth daylight, he is **exhausted**_. _He’s leaning up against the side of the cave wall, his muscles and bones aching and his eyes burning, when he hears the other strigoi’s approach._

_He turns his head to find Vaun coming toward him.  The creature has partially undressed, taken off the shirt and hooded coat he usually wears.  He’s kept his black riding breeches and field boots, but has a wool blanket draped over his head and pulled tight around his chest to protect him from the dawn sunlight sneaking in through the mouth of the cave._

_Vaun rattles in greeting, and says, “I was preparing to lie down and sleep, and saw you were not with us.  You’re taking guard again?  I don’t believe you’ve slept since you’ve been here.”_

_“I’m the Born,” he begins to defend himself.  “I don’t need sleep the same way as…”_

_“Your strength has weakened, and your mind is tired,” Vaun interrupts him.  “You need sleep.”_

_Quinlan doesn’t answer, because he has the right of it.  He won’t make it another daylight after this, that is if he makes it through **this** daylight without his body betraying him.  _

_And Vaun is looking at him with the same concern and empathy he has shared with the rest of the nest.  Quinlan looks away, because that look should not be possible.  Vaun says, “I know you do not fully trust us, but you need sleep.  Lie down next to me.  None of the others will dare touch you while you are with me.”_

_“And what is to stop **you** from ending my life while I sleep?” Quinlan asks._

_Vaun rattles out a laugh.  “Trust me, Born, if They wanted you dead, you already would be.  They do not want your life.”_

_“I wasn’t asking about Them,” Quinlan answers.  “I specifically said **you**.”_

_Vaun shakes his head and turns away, as though answering this question is a waste of his time.  Still, though, he pauses to respond over his shoulder, “They say you were a gladiator in Roma.  And that you led human soldiers into battle.  That you have killed hundreds upon hundreds of both men and strigoi alike…  You are almost a millennia older than I, over a millennia older than most of my nestmates.  If there should be any concern about sleeping here, it should be **us** concerned about sleeping with **you.”**_

_“Yet if They wanted my dead, I already would be?” Quinlan asks, rattling, but Vaun is already leaving toward their nesting tunnel._

_Quinlan hesitates for a minute, but only a minute, before following._

~*~*~

When Quinlan finally relents and returns to the Ancients’ nest in search of the Lumen, he’s greeted by Vaun’s second in command, Lar. 

Lar had been there _back then_ , backing Vaun’s authority with strength and assurance.  Quinlan realizes they’ve done well over the years—both the Ancients’ first and second have survived for the past seven centuries, through both extreme change and immense danger.  He feels a sudden, profound respect for them both, then has to bat that down quickly before it overtakes him. 

“You’re back,” Lar says, cocking his head.  “Could you not find your humans?”

“I found them, that’s not why I’m here,” Quinlan answers.  “I need information from the Ancients.  Where is Vaun?”

And Quinlan can see it as soon as he speaks the question—something is not right.  Lar shifts from foot to foot, glancing to the ground, then back up.  “Vaun is… unavailable.  I can speak for the Ancients.  For now.” 

Quinlan can feel his heart rate speeding up.  “Where is Vaun?” he repeats.  “It is midnight, why is he ‘unavailable’?”

And there is one thing that Quinlan had observed during those years with the nest.  These strigoi do not lie well…  “He is—is—is out… out hunting.  For humans—blood—food?” Lar tries, his expression a hard glare and completely at odds with the tone of his voice. 

Quinlan sighs, rattling loudly, and storms away, past Lar, and toward the smell of other strigoi.  Lar is on his heels immediately, trying to stop him, but Quinlan shrugs out of his grip and continues on toward his goal. 

He finds them in the room they obviously use for nesting and sleeping, the area dark and open, its contents empty save for piles of pillows and blankets.  There are two strigoi lying naked in the middle of the floor, uncovered and charred, mostly dead.  Quinlan cannot discern if he knew them from his time with the nest or if they were infected since his departure—cannot discern if either of them are Vaun even though the thought plays in the back of his mind.  They are burnt beyond recognition, they look like nothing and smell like nothing except ash, and Quinlan is _disgusted._  

“These creatures are already dead,” Quinlan spits, turning to glare at Lar. 

“They are…” Lar begins, but Quinlan is already unsheathing his sword.  He brings it down across the neck of the first burnt Sun Hunter, ending the creature’s misery.  Another strigoi screams from his right and crawls across the floor from under a blanket to its beheaded companion, but Quinlan is not deterred.  He brings his sword down again across the neck of the second dying strigoi, and that’s when he smells him. 

 _Vaun._ His scent has been masked by the scent of the burnt creatures and ash and, as it turns out, a blanket.  Vaun turns away from where he’d lunged for his decapitated nestmate and grabs onto Quinlan’s pantleg instead, rattling wildly.  “No!” he snarls.  “No!  We were waiting for _Them!_ ”

Quinlan looks down and cannot believe what he sees.  Vaun is burnt as well, from the top of his skull all the way across the right side of his face and down the right side of his neck.  His right eye has been seared entirely away, and the rest of his visible skin is a deep red, like a first degree burn on a human.  Most of his trunk and legs are still covered by the blanket, but Quinlan can only assume they are the same red as his shoulders and arms… 

“What?” Quinlan starts, stepping back in shock.  Then, turning to Lar angrily, “What has happened here?”

“There was a failed mission,” Lar answers, while Quinlan turns back to see Vaun kneeling over his second fallen companion, forehead to the creature’s chest.  “I don’t know all the details,” Lar continues, “He hasn’t spoken much about it.”

 _He hasn’t spoken much about it because it was obviously a painful experience_ , Quinlan thinks. _And that is a far too **familiar** of a reaction.  _ “Vaun, what has happened here?” he presses.

“We were after one of the Master’s human minions.  We were going to abduct him to learn the Master’s location,” Vaun chokes in reply, not looking up from his decapitated nestmate.  “These lights came on.  I’ve never seen anything like it, they were so strong.  Most of us had removed our hoods, and…”

“Fools,” Quinlan snarls at that, which gets Vaun’s attention away from the dead.  He finds himself meeting the creature eye-to-eye again, Vaun’s expression savage.  Quinlan continues, “I taught you better than that.”

“I don’t need your lecture, _Born_ ,” Vaun growls, and the fact the he calls him Born—not friend, brother, nestmate—hurts more than it should.  “I got three—five—of my siblings killed.  I know my mistakes.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Lar speaks up.  “Look at his arms, his chest.  It burnt them through their clothing.”

And yes, Quinlan has already noticed this.  He shakes his head, rattling in distress, and says, “You need help.  This will take weeks to heal,” _if you heal at all and don’t die_ , “and we don’t have weeks.  The Master moves quickly.”

“I was trying,” Vaun snaps.  The fact that he’s still on the floor and hasn’t attempted to stand concerns Quinlan.  He remembers his meeting with the creature a week ago, the way he’d moved, unsteady and slow.  Weak.  He’d been injured then and had hidden it.  “I’ve been pleading with Them,” Vaun continues.  “My siblings needed the White, but They do not…  They were worried it will weaken Them.”

“Gods damn it…” Quinlan gripes.  “You need It.  They are…”

“It’s Their decision to make,” Vaun interrupts.  “I will not…”

But Quinlan has already turned at that point, storming back out toward the Ancients.  He hears Lar call for him, then Vaun even louder, “Quintus!  _Quintus!!_ ”

Quinlan doesn’t respond, moving until he is standing before the Three.  They stir as he comes to a stop, one of Them shrieking while one motions to his still unsheathed sword.  They’re unhappy with him, but Quinlan is _furious._   “Give him the White.  Now!” he orders.  One of Them screams again, different than the first, and then he hears boots on the concrete.  Lar has reappeared, hand resting on his gun holster, and Quinlan laughs.  “Are you going to shoot me?  Go ahead and try.”

Lar’s fingers flex, the third Ancient screams, and then Vaun drags himself around the corner to stand next to Lar.  He’s still undressed, covered only by the blanket he’s holding around his torso, feet bare against the concrete.  And at first Quinlan is hopeful—They will give him the White now, and he’ll be well again. 

But then Vaun says, “Watch it, Born.  You’re impertinent.  You don’t give orders around here…”

“And yet _I_ don’t take orders from _you_!” Quinlan snaps, shifting his anger to the one creature here he’s not angry with.  At least, not _truly_ angry. 

“Leave.  Now,” Lar puts in.  _Lar, always the loyal solider, always one step behind Vaun ready to step in…_

And so Quinlan turns back to the Ancients for one last stand, “You’re putting Yourselves in danger.  You sit complacent while we are at war.  Your numbers have dwindled, and Your best hunter is out of the fight.  You’ve lost this battle already.”

The Ancients shriek in unison, Vaun rattles loudly, and Lar pulls his gun…  But Quinlan turns and flees before they can take action. 

It isn’t until later that he realizes that he got no information on the Lumen. 

~*~*~

_Quinlan has been with the nest for about a year when they lose one of the young strigoi._

_It’s only a half-century infected, a child in Quinlan’s eyes, when it is felled while they clear out a nest of the Master’s minions.  It happens so quickly—the fight is completely under control, but then the strigoi is taken in hand by an enemy and smashed repeatedly into a wall.  Its skull is caved in at the third blow, and it goes limp on the fourth._

_Quinlan is the first to squat down next to it after the battle.  It was a male when it was human, infected young, in its late teens or early twenties.  Quinlan looks down at its face—its eyes open, red-tinted, lifeless—and feels… of all things, **sorrow.**   _

_He feels Vaun’s presence next to him suddenly, and looks over to find the creature kneeling down in the dirt.  Vaun rattles mournfully, laying a hand in the center of the dead’s chest, and Quinlan watches, not quite believing what he’s seeing._

_“The parasites are stilling,” Quinlan says—he can hear their movement slowing inside the creature’s body._

_“I know,” Vaun answers.  His hand strokes over the creature’s chest, playing with the lapel of its black coat._

_And slowly, the rest of their hunting group comes to kneel down next to it.  They rattle and purr, touching its body, and Quinlan realizes with clarity that they are **mourning their dead**.  Which should not be possible, defies all of his expectations regarding their kind, but nonetheless…_

_Vaun touches his forehead to the dead’s chest, before straightening and then standing.  “Take him back with us,” Vaun orders.  “They will want to see him.”_

_Once they return to the nest, they lay the creature’s body down in front of the Three.  They all rattle quietly at the sight, but after a moment one of Them steps down from Its perch and over to the body.  Quinlan watches nervously, unsure what is about to happen, but then the Ancient leans down and pets the dead’s face with Its long, unnatural fingers._

_“We burn the body once his Creator is finished,” Vaun says quietly to Quinlan and the two strigoi standing nearby._

_And just because Quinlan needs to hear one of the strigoi say it—even though he already knows, he needs to **hear** it—he asks, “And what exactly is It doing?”_

_Vaun shoots him a look that is somewhere between exasperated and insulted, and answers, “Saying goodbye.  That is Its progeny.”_

_Quinlan doesn’t answer.  He’s still trying to process what he’s seeing, the emotions and reactions he’s witnessing from the strigoi.  They have surprised him continuously over the past year, but this…?_

_“They are not like the Master, and we are not like the Master’s minions,” Vaun speaks up needlessly.  This is something Quinlan has already figured out, though the exact hows and whys he’s still discovering.  Vaun continues, “We are not simple minions.  We are not Their pawns.  We are Their children, They chose us for this gift.  We are special to Them.”_

_Quinlan laughs at that.  “Truly?  A gift?  Special?” he asks, incredulous._

_“The Master keeps his minions chained and uses them as he pleases,” Vaun says.  “We have no chains, no masters.  We serve the Three out of respect and deference.”_

_“Or do you serve the Three because They compel you to?” Quinlan counters._

_Vaun rattles, not impressed by this line of questioning.  “We are not **compelled** to do anything.  They speak to us through the Connection, but they do not compel us or use us as channels…”_

_“Do They not speak through you?” Quinlan interrupts.  “That is channeling.”_

_“I only repeat what They say to me,” Vaun answers.  “They do not take my body.”_

_“At least, not that you are aware of,” Quinlan points out._

_Vaun rattles unhappily, and reprimands, “You’ve stayed with us for some time now.  You’ve seen how we live.  We fight the same enemy.  Yet you still resist what you already know is true.”_

_“Resist?” Quinlan asks angrily, though he already knows what the creature means, and **that** only makes him angrier.  _

_Vaun shakes his head before turning to Lar behind him.  “Let’s take the body,” he orders, “We need to create a pyre before the sun rises.”_

_Lar nods, motioning for his brethren to join him, and Vaun gives Quinlan one last, hard look before he steps forward to follow the others._

_~*~*~_

Quinlan returns to the nest the next night to obtain the information he’d been after in the first place—the location of the Lumen. 

He’s concerned about his welcome here now after the confrontation the previous night, and he almost expects to be run off by the first creature he sees.  However, he passes two strigoi guards on his way down into the compound, and while they do not speak to him, they don’t attempt to stop him either.  And so he continues on…

He bypasses the Ancients and goes straight to the nesting room, following the scent of other strigoi.  He assumes Vaun will be there, unless They’ve come to Their senses and given him the White.  But no, the still injured strigoi is lying propped up against the wall, snuggled up under a couple of blankets, while Lar sits cross-legged on the floor across from him.  As Quinlan approaches, their conversation goes silent, and their heads swivel around in unison.  Neither of them look happy to see him. 

“I know I told you to leave,” Lar grumbles accusingly. 

“He doesn’t take orders from us, remember?” Vaun adds, cocking his head to the side to regard Lar through his one good eye. 

Quinlan huffs a sigh, and bites the bullet.  “I apologize for my behavior,” he says, even though he’s not sorry.  Not at all.  He’d said what needed to be said.  But he’s not going to get any information if they’re irritated—they make so many decisions based off this instinctual feeling of ‘friend’ or ‘foe’, and Quinlan needs to be ‘friend’ to get what he wants. 

Neither of the two strigoi reply with words.  They only reply with strigoi vocalizations, by rattling and purring and huffing.  It’s been some time since Quinlan has had to communicate this way, and he’s not quite sure what they mean by their sounds.  However, neither of them seem combative or aggressive, so he’s hopeful. 

“I spoke too quickly, and too harshly.  I am sorry,” he finishes.  Vaun nods at that, a clear acceptance of the apology, so Quinlan presses on.  “I came here yesterday for a reason.  I need information again.  I just became distracted yesterday—considering the circumstances.”

“Yes, the circumstances.  We definitely have circumstances,” Vaun says with an unfeeling chuckle.  Then presses, “What information?  I gave you the name of the human…”

“Yes, and that human is looking for the Lumen,” Quinlan says.  “He seems to think you may have information.”

Lar narrows his eyes and practically scoffs, while Vaun just rattles again.  Vaun eventually answers, “We’ve already had this discussion.”

“Really?” Quinlan presses, sarcastic.  “Refresh my memory.”

“Not with you,” Lar growls, but then Vaun is interrupting. 

“I’ve talked to the Professor.  _They’ve_ talked to the Professor,” he clarifies.  “We have the means to help him acquire it, but he was unwilling to agree to our terms.” 

“Which were?” Quinlan pushes.  Vaun smirks. 

“We want the Lumen delivered to us,” Vaun says.  “It cannot be allowed to remain in human possession.  We promised him full support—from Them and us—should we get the tome.”

“I see,” Quinlan replies.  Then, because it seems to be the next obvious assumption, “So then the Lumen _does_ contain information pertaining to the Ancients’ extermination?”

Silence seems to ring in the room after that question—except that Quinlan can hear his own heart beating, his own lungs working, the worms twisting inside the other’s strigoi bodies.  Finally, Vaun says, “I can’t answer that question.”

“You just did,” Quinlan says.  Vaun rattles back, while Quinlan considers his options.  “So if I gave you my word now to bring you the tome once it’s acquired, would that offer of support still stand?”

Vaun squints his one remaining eye distrustfully, but then cocks his head, listening.  “They say yes,” Vaun relays after a moment.  “They apparently still trust you, for some reason…”

“And I’ve given you some reason not to trust me?” Quinlan asks, even though he already knows. 

Both Vaun and Lar rattle at him in reply.  Quinlan sighs.  It’s Lar who speaks up again, saying, “A member of the church is currently in possession of the tome, though several parties are looking to relieve him of this burden.”

“And you haven’t taken this task upon yourselves?” Quinlan asks, honestly curious.  Acquiring a book is just… so simple.

Lar growls threateningly.  Vaun sighs, stinger purring, and repositions himself against the wall with a wince before speaking, “Do you know how many strigoi are in this nest right now, Quintus?”

Quinlan shakes his head, not at all sure.  They were thirty strong when he’d left them, but that had been nearly three-hundred years ago…

“There are ten, including the Ancients,” Vaun answers.  “We have only seven Sun Hunters.  Tonight I have two _children_ guarding the entrance, while my three competent siblings are out hunting because we unfortunately still to _feed_ during this fucking mess…”  He stops to hum in irritation before finishing.  “Meanwhile, Lar sits down here and babysits me instead of doing something useful.”

Lar rattles menacingly at that statement, though Vaun pays him no mind.  And Quinlan…  He doesn’t know how to reply, what to say or how to respond.  But his heart hurts, and his chest is tight and his stomach knotted.  It’s a feeling he used to know well… _instinct._ An overwhelming need to care for, to protect, and to defend _his and his own_.

This nest is as good as dead.  _His_ nest is as good as dead. 

“The Three need to infect more humans,” Quinlan says.

“It won’t matter,” Vaun answers.  “They’ll be too young.”

“It’s better than only having seven hunters—only six who are capable of fighting,” Quinlan snaps.

“Only six?  You want to bet on that?” Vaun snarls, obviously insulted, and clambers up into a standing position.  It’s a difficult display to watch—he attempts to keep the blankets wrapped around himself with one hand, while clawing at the wall behind him for leverage with the other.  He is so clearly sick and wounded, and it hurts Quinlan _deeply_. 

Lar scrambles up next to him, gloved hand reaching for his ever-present pistol, but Vaun preempts him with a wave of a hand.  And with that, Quinlan decides it’s time for the conversation to come to a close.  “I’ll be back with the book,” he says.  “Hopefully everyone here will still be alive…”

“You’ll do one more thing for me,” Vaun commands before Quinlan can turn away. 

“Pardon me?” Quinlan counters, eyebrow raised _.  Still fucking giving orders, even when he’s days away from his own demise…_

“There’s a human man,” Vaun begins, changing position to lean against the wall, subtly using the structure to help support his weight.  He continues, “He aided us some time ago.  Go to him, and tell him payment is coming.  Tell him we haven’t forgotten.”

And Quinlan should be exasperated at the vague statement.  What human man?  Where?  And what payment?  Does Vaun mean payment, or _payment_?  Instead, he offers unbidden, “If I am going to him anyway, why don’t I just deliver this ‘payment’?”

Vaun blinks his one inner eyelid, and answers, “Fine.  Lar?”  He motions to his second.  “Get the boy’s payment together, and give it to Quintus.”

“You trust him to not take the money for himself?” Lar asks, scowling. 

Payment then, not _payment_ , Quinlan realizes.  Vaun scowls back at Lar in reply, rattling, and answers, “He has quite enough already.  I believe another ten grand is a drop in the bucket—not quite worthwhile enough to turn three Ancients against him.”

“A fair assessment,” Quinlan says.  “The money will get to him, do not worry.  Who, exactly, should I be looking for, though?”

“Augustin Elizalde,” Vaun says.  “He’s type AB, and he’s injured.  You’ll be able to smell him miles away.”

“Indeed,” Quinlan remarks.

“Ok, come on,” Lar says, motioning for Quinlan to following him.  And Quinlan steps forward after him, the sound of his boots on concrete resounding in the empty room. 

But out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Vaun sink back down to the floor.  The creature must think no eyes are on him anymore, and he’s dropped his façade of strength and leadership.  His weakness, fear, and suffering is palpable, and that deep, instinctual feeling in Quinlan chest seems to scream. 

 _Companion, nestmate, mine!_ His feet stop on their own accord, and he turns to look at the other creature.  Lar stops and turns back when he realizes Quinlan is no longer following, but Vaun stares up at Quinlan in defiance, seeming almost angry that he’d been caught. 

 _Take him!_   Quinlan rattles loudly, his chest still so tight.  _He needs rest, he needs care, he needs to be allowed to rely on another—not have the rest of this nest relying on **him!**_  

“Don’t,” Vaun snarls.  “ _You_ left, so you have no right.  I speak for this nest now… again.”

“Then why…?” Quinlan starts, but then shakes his head, stopping because Vaun has the truth of it.  He has no right to question.  _But then why do I still **feel** like this?_   So he says simply, “Be safe.  Please.”

Vaun rattles low and deep in reply, before answering, “I’ve always done the best I can.”

Quinlan nods once, before turning back to Lar and motioning the other on.  Lar watches him oddly for a moment, as if considering whether to say something, before turning and leading him away from the nesting room, away from Vaun.

Quinlan has to force himself away, force his feet to move to follow Lar. 

Vaun grunts quietly from behind him in pain.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, you're all immensely appreciated. Tags updated for this part. Thank you so much for reading!

Though it becomes a week-long process, the Professor locates the Lumen through an auction. 

Apparently, the tome has traded hands several times since Vaun last knew its location, but it in the end it matters not.  The Ancients come through on Their promise of support to the tune of three million dollars, and Quinlan finds himself once again back at the Presidential suite of the abandoned hotel the humans are calling their temporary home. 

He needs to take the tome from the humans and return it to the Ancients as he’d sworn he would.  If he doesn’t do so soon, the nest will brand him a traitor and come looking for retribution.  Or at least, they will try.  With their numbers what they are now and Vaun the shape he is in, Quinlan isn’t exactly concerned about retaliation—but his gut is urging him to take the Lumen and _go back_.  Because this is what Vaun wants, this is what Lar wants, this is what They want…

Except the Professor has locked the Lumen away in a safe with a silver padlock and surrounded with artificial sun lights, which is making the entire situation… difficult.  The padlock is nothing—gloves to protect him from the silver and a good strong pull will have that situation solved.  The lighting, however, is giving him pause.  All he can think of is Vaun, the creature burnt through his clothing by whatever lighting _he_ had been subjected to, and if this is the sort of thing humans are capable of now…

Quinlan has a better resistance to the sun due to his mix of human blood, but he is still weak to strong UV rays.  He would rather not end up a burnt corpse just trying to get his hands on a book.

In a brilliant stroke of luck, however, he finds the Good Doctor skulking around the safe one night, obviously trying to decipher a way to get into it and retrieve the tome.  And Quinlan is a very smart man, he has seen scheming humans before, and he knows what Eph is doing…

“What did the Master offer you for it?” he asks from behind, startling Eph and causing the human to turn back and regard him in uncomfortable shock. 

“I…” the Doctor starts, attempting the beginnings of a lie, but Quinlan preempts him. 

“Please do not waste my time.  I know what you’re doing,” he says.  Then, “Tell me.”

Eph sighs heavily before admitting, “The Lumen in exchange for my son.”

And Quinlan can already see the opportunity, even if Eph doesn’t know he’s afforded him one.  “Very good, very good…” he muses to himself, while Eph stares at him in confusion. 

“What?” the Doctor asks.

“Turn those lights off,” Quinlan orders, pointing.  “And I’ll retrieve the tome for you.”

Of course, as with most things in Quinlan’s long life, this ‘opportunity’ does not go quite as planned.

He wakes up back at the hotel, the Professor watching over him silently.  He takes stock of his surroundings for a moment, trying to remember.  _Fighting, silver bullets, pain, **excruciating** pain, and finally, his Father’s head rolling across the pavement with a decisive blow from the bone-handled sword…_

“Am I dead?” he asks, confused.  This looks like this hotel, smells and feels like the hotel—and that looks like the Professor, smells and feels like the Professor—and he feels hunger, such _hunger_.  He can remember his blood running freely down his front from the gunshots, and he touches his chest absently, the healing gunshot wounds rough against his fingers.  “Am I dead?” he repeats, bewildered as he begins to realize he is not, in fact, deceased.

“No, no, you are still quite alive, Mr. Quinlan,” the Professor answers needlessly, frowning.  Then, “Which brings up another question entirely, I’m afraid.”

“I realize this.  I should not be alive,” Quinlan answers, sitting up from the table only to have the sheet that was draped over his waist slide down a bit.  He catches it before anything is overly exposed, but he suddenly realizes something else… 

 _Someone_ has undressed him. 

“Where are my clothes?” he demands angrily, looking around the room to no avail. 

“The Doctor took them,” the Professor explains.  “I believe he was going to try to patch up the holes.”

So the good Doctor undressed him…  This is either the incredibly fortunate choice of human to have seen him, or the incredibly unfortunate choice.  He looks around again, almost expecting to see the man nearby, but only the Professor sits in the room.  He sighs, and says, “That is unnecessary.  I have others.  Where are my weapons?”

“In the foyer,” the Professor answers.  “Your guns and sword are safe.”

“Good,” Quinlan says, and then stands, clutching the sheet tight around his waist.  “I am going to dress myself, and…” _and feed…_ “and we can speak further when I return.”

And it’s as he’s traipsing back to the room he’s commandeered as his own that he spots Eph sitting on the couch by the bar.  The man is drinking liquor, looking quite distraught, though his face breaks into a smile when he notices Quinlan.  “Ah, you’re awake and standing!” Eph notes, pleased.  “I guess my handiwork pulled through after all…”

“I thank you for your assistance,” Quinlan says, nodding to him once.  Then, with a glance back at the Professor, “Both of you.  All of you.”

Abraham nods back in silent acceptance of his gratitude, while Eph chatters on drunkenly, “Ah, it’s no problem.  Can’t say I’ve ever removed bullets from a half-human before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything, right?”  Eph pauses, laughing to himself momentarily, before adding, “I gotta say, though, I got quite the shock once I got you stripped on that table…”

To his credit, Eph seems to realize his mistake as soon as the words are out, and he snaps his mouth shut, cheeks reddening.  And for a moment, just one tiny moment, Quinlan considers latching onto the Doctor’s neck and drinking him right there.  It would certainly sate his hunger and help him heal. 

Except he can practically hear Vaun standing there, growling at the young ones, _We do not feed on fellow Sun Hunters—the humans that serve us are also our brothers, and we **do not** harm them.  _

“Ephraim!” the Professor snaps, scolding, but Quinlan is already stepping across the room and grabbing up the bottle of liquor from in front of Eph.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of this for right now,” he decides, holding the bottle in one hand and keeping the sheet in place with the other.  And then, just so the point is clear, “I hope you realize what a very close call that was.”

And he can hear the two speaking once he’s turned the corner and gone back to his room.

“What the hell was that supposed to mean?”

“I’d suggest, Doctor Goodweather, it is best if you not ask.”

~*~*~

_While there may be a lot of disturbing similarities between himself and the Ancients’ children, most of which Quinlan would rather not admit to, there are also quite a few real and distinct differences._

_Quinlan is Born, part strigoi and part human, and his anatomy reflects this mix accordingly.  His blood may be white, but it is clean, free of the worm parasites that plague the other strigoi in the nest.  His heart still beats, pumping the blood through his body, while the movement of the worms slowly circulate the blood through the other strigoi’s bodies.  His stinger and its working appendage are smaller than the other strigoi’s, making room for the human lungs that still work in his chest, for his kidneys and liver, for his bladder and intestines…_

_And while the strigoi may have a cloaca and no genitalia, Quinlan’s body is very much **human** in these regards. _

_Quinlan is not a shy man, it’s not that…  Most of the cities he has lived in during his long life were large, overly full of people, and afforded little privacy—and this is not to mention the complete lack of privacy he endured as a slave.  He can remember the public bathhouses and latrines in Rome, the similar structures in Constantinople.  He is used to being nude in front of others while he cleans himself, is used to emptying his bladder and bowels with others next to him.  None of these are new experiences for him._

_It is the fact that these creatures are not made like him, do not look like him underneath their clothing, and do not relieve themselves in the same way that he does.  Perhaps it should not make him uncomfortable—he is **not** one of them after all—but still, being around them causes a sudden and unexpected need for concealment.  _

_Privacy is difficult with them, though.  They have an odd pack mentality, and it seems wherever one goes at least one more must follow, regardless of how benign the task at hand is.  Going down to a nearby stream to wash the blood and dirt from his skin and clothes?  He’ll have anywhere from two to four strigoi trying to follow him.  And stepping into the woods to relieve himself always gets him at least one strigoi straggler that he must chase away._

_And on top of all that, they sleep naked in piles of two or three, curled up under blankets and quilts, incredibly close together.  Quinlan can remember that first daylight he’d actually slept with them, removing his coat and boots only, and he had watched Vaun and Lar together—the two chest to chest, their limbs intertwined, purring quietly to each other.  He’d been in utter and complete bafflement._

_Six months later, and he’s managed to keep mostly to himself.  While he’s relaxed enough to take his shirt off now, he still keeps his breeches on during the day while he sleeps.  He doesn’t allow any of the others to follow him into the woods or down to the stream, and of course doesn’t follow any of them when they go off to bathe or relieve themselves._

_However all good things must come to an end, and it’s as he’s in the woods just before dawn, cock pulled out of his breeches while he takes a piss, that he hears one of them approach._

_He stops and whips his head around to snarl at the intruder, only to find Vaun approaching.  Vaun stares him down passively for a moment, apparently unimpressed by the growled warning, before he turns his back to Quinlan and pulls a small knife from his belt.  Quinlan watches as the creature plays idly with the knife, twirling and twisting it between his fingers, quite obviously waiting for Quinlan to finish._

_And so Quinlan does so, then stalks past Vaun with a threatening rattle, re-lacing his breeches as he goes.  He hears Vaun move to follow him, rattling in reply._

_The order comes from behind Quinlan’s back.  “Stop coming out here by yourself.  We do not leave the nest alone.”_

_Quinlan pauses, turning to look back over his shoulder.  Had the creature just given him a direct order?  Surely not…  “I’ll do as I please,” he hisses back._

_Vaun walks up next to him, rattling in irritation, and answers, “No.  You’ll do what is safe.”_

**_I don’t take orders from you_ ** _, Quinlan thinks. **I am Born, not one of your strigoi cohorts.**   Except he has been following orders for months like the good little gladiator that he is, and it’s this sudden realization that has him bristling even further.  “I can take care of myself,” he answers, already turning away.  _

_Vaun is quick on his heels, his rattling becoming increasingly louder.  “We stay together.  We protect each other while we are… vulnerable,” Vaun says, and Quinlan grunts in reply, almost amused by the choice of words.  Except then Vaun adds, “You do not need to hide.  We know, we **all** know **.** ”  _

_And that brings Quinlan up short.  “Know?” he asks, vexed.  Maybe Vaun does, the creature had just walked up on him, but…  “ **All?** ”_

_“You have that smell—like human men and male animals.  Virile,” Vaun says, gesturing idly.  “You’re obviously still intact.”_

_“Virile?” he asks, sneering.  “I’m quite the opposite, I assure you.  Quite sterile.  In more ways than one…”_

_He’s ashamed by his outburst of a revelation immediately, unsure of what had caused him to disclose such a thing.  Except Vaun just shrugs, completely unfazed, and says, “No more so than us.  I’m rather sure.”_

_And Quinlan is left standing and staring, unsure how to react.  Had the creature just made a casual joke about his lack of genitals?  Because it had definitely sounded like it…_

_The corner of Vaun’s mouth curves up into a smirk, and he motions Quinlan to follow him.  “Come on, let’s go back.  The sun’s about to come up,” Vaun says, turning away and back toward the cave entrance.  Then, over his shoulder, “And stop leaving the nest by yourself.”_

_And Quinlan wants to repeat his response from earlier, **I’ll do as a please, I don’t take orders from you.**   Instead, what bubbles up from the center of his chest are the words, “All right.”_

_“All right,” Vaun echoes, not bothering to look back over his shoulder, and continues to lead them back to the nest._

~*~*~

Quinlan is not sure what to do after his beheading of the Master. 

He is still alive, something that he had not expected, and the Lumen is in the Professor’s hands during the day and once again locked in that safe at night.  He’s questioning what to do about this situation, thinking over his non-existent options, when he remembers the other task Vaun had given him. 

 _“Augustin Elizalde,”_ Vaun had said _.  “He’s type AB, and he’s injured.  You’ll be able to smell him miles away.”_

So Quinlan finds himself sneaking through the back alleys just after dusk, his hood pulled low, following the strong smell of clotted, mixed type blood.  He’s close now, he knows, and he pauses, breathing in deeply, trying to gauge the direction…

A door opens behind him, and he reaches for one of his submachine guns just as the bloody, injured smell hits him strong and heady.  His hand pauses over the holster as he turns to look at the human—young, Hispanic, and regarding Quinlan with a defiant stare.  One of his arms is wrapped in a bandage and held in a sling, while the other is hefting a bag of trash. He was obviously headed for the dumpster in the side alley. 

“Whatcha gonna do, _puto_?” Gus snaps, aggressive.  “I see that sword, those guns you’re carrying.  You think I’m not packing heat too?”

That makes Quinlan chuckle.  He sees why Vaun had liked him, had selected him for service.  Vaun had always preferred humans who were fearless to the point of stupidity.  “I would not have presumed otherwise,” Quinlan says, stepping toward the human and removing his hood. 

Gus’s eyes open wide, and he begins shaking his head.  “Oh, no.  No, no, no,” he says.  “You one of _them?_   I told that little fucker I was done.  Maybe he was too fried to remember, but I _told him…_ ”

 _Little fucker, too fried…_   He’s obviously referring to Vaun.  Quinlan grunts, and tosses the suitcase Lar had given him toward the child.  Gus stops talking immediately and takes a step back, brows furrowing at the case.  “Your payment,” Quinlan explains.  “I was asked to deliver it.”

Gus sets the bag of trash down and bends to open the suitcase.  It takes him a moment, struggling with the latches with his one good hand, but then he opens the top and his eyes widen.  “ _Maldito…_ ” the kid breathes, shocked.

“I believe they mentioned it was ten grand,” Quinlan offers. 

Gus nods, still seeming stunned.  “Thank you,” he says after a moment.

Quinlan just turns to leave—the kid owes him no gratitude.  And now he’s done what he came here for, so there is no reason to linger. 

“Wait,” Gus calls to him.  Quinlan pauses, glancing back, and the human continues, “How is that little fucker doing, anyway?  Is he—are they okay?”

“Mmm,” Quinlan murmurs, pondering his answer.  “No,” he says finally.  “Not well.”

“Oh…” Gus says, frowning.  Then, “I did the best I could.  I tried to get them all out of there, even though that bastard was telling me to just leave.  I felt like I, I dunno.  He taught me a lot.  I’d probably be dead if I hadn’t run into him... or maybe I’d still be alive and not have a bum shoulder.  Ha!”

Quinlan nods, and reveals, “I helped train him many, many years ago.”  But then that isn’t entirely fair.  “Just as he taught me.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty close,” Gus comments.  “Didn’t think you blood-suckers made friends.”

“Mmm,” Quinlan mumbles again, the kid’s words making him uneasy.  “Take care,” he offers in parting, turning to leave.  “Don’t get infected.”

“I’m not gonna,” Gus answers confidently from behind him.  “Don’t worry, not gonna.”

~*~*~

_The nest moves toward Western Europe in the mid-15 th century, once Quinlan has been living amongst the group for about seventy-five years.  _

_They’re forced to move because of Quinlan, the Master taking hold of one of His minions and shining red eyes on Quinlan in the middle of Spanish territory.  Quinlan attempts to leave them that night, arguing that his presence is too dangerous for the rest of the nest.  But the Three Ancients persuade him otherwise, Vaun speaking calmly and sensibly for Them._

_Where else is he, Quinlan, safer than amongst Three Ancient beings and a group of Their offspring?  Quinlan is **important,** Quinlan is **special.**   He **cannot** fall into the Master’s control.  They **cannot** allow the Master to destroy him.  They want him to stay, and They **will** get what They want.  _

_And somewhere deep inside Quinlan’s being, he does not truly wish to leave.  It is not a hard job convincing him to stay._

_Once they head West, he comes into ownership of a matchlock firearm, a fine weapon, much improved from the arquebus he’d used a couple centuries ago in the Turkish Empire.  However, upon bringing it back to the nest and around the rest of the strigoi, it becomes apparent that none of the others have even seen a firearm before, much less fired one._

_He starts with Vaun and Lar, figuring that if he can get those two trained on the gun, they can assist him in teaching the others.  It’s slow going at first as they only have the one firearm, and Quinlan vows to keep searching for more.  If he can get the entire nest armed with guns, gunpowder, and silver bullets, they will be deadly **.**   _

_Vaun and Lar both are startled by the gunfire at first, alternating between curiosity and distress as Quinlan shows them how to load the weapon, how to position themselves with the weapon, how to aim and how to fire.  And as he watches Vaun nervously fiddling with the weapon’s barrel under the moonlight, something else occurs to him.  “Have you never been fired at before?” he asks._

_Vaun looks up at him, surprised, and answers, “No… No, we haven’t.”_

_Quinlan finds himself rattling and shaking his head.  “You need to learn to avoid the bullets.  The bullets fire quickly, but we are faster.  The newly infected may not be fast enough—but the rest of us are more than fast enough to avoid being hit.”_

_Vaun and Lar both rattle in unison.  Lar seems anxious, though Vaun eventually sets his shoulders back confidently and says, “Then we should practice.  Fire at me.”_

_And Quinlan knows this is smart, this is the sensible choice.  If they train here in a controlled environment, the less the chance they will be injured or killed in battle.  However, the thought of firing at the other creature, of possibly injuring him, has him growling quietly.  To stall the inevitable, he says, “I have been fired at by educated humans who load these weapons with silver rounds.  The silver rounds **will** incapacitate you.  They don’t have to hit your head in order to down you if they are firing silver, understand?”_

_Lar shifts, frowning.  “That is…”_

_“Incredibly intelligent,” Vaun finishes for him.  “Especially for humans.”_

_“Indeed,” Quinlan says._

_“You’re not going to fire at him with silver now, right?” Lar asks worriedly._

_His concern is almost touching.  “We don’t even have any silver rounds.  We would have to produce them ourselves,” he explains.  Then adds needlessly, “And I would not risk firing silver at any of you anyhow, even if we did have access to it.”_

_“Fire what we have then,” Vaun says, stepping some ways away from Quinlan.  Then orders, “Do not warn me.  Just fire.”_

_They stand facing each other, and Quinlan loads the weapon, hefting it up in his hands and preparing.  He targets the creature’s left shoulder, and has to breathe deeply for several seconds before he can force himself to fire._

_Vaun moves quickly, but he’s apparently not prepared for how rapidly the bullet travels in relation to his own body.  The round catches him in the meaty part of the shoulder by the head of the humerus, and Quinlan’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches the creature fall._

_He drops the weapon to the dirt, taking a step forward, but Lar is already across the field and dropping to his knees by the other’s side.  “Vaun!” Lar cries, but Vaun is already leveraging himself up to his hands and knees, then up to stand._

_Quinlan isn’t sure what to expect as Vaun turns to regard him through narrowed eyes.  But he’s definitely not prepared for the creature to shout, “Again!”_

_Quinlan blinks his inner eyelids, and answers instinctively, “No.”_

_Vaun’s eyes widen, the look scandalized.  “It wasn’t a request,” the creature snarls._

_“I realize,” Quinlan answers.  He looks up at the sky, at the moon, away from Vaun, and repeats, “I said, ‘No’.”_

_Vaun growls, hostile and threatening.  Quinlan’s heard the noise before, usually directed at young, recently infected strigoi being unruly, but it’s never been directed at him before.  He should be cowed by the noise, but instead he finds himself bridling, angry._

_“No,” he repeats, before Vaun can even speak up again.  “No, we go back in.  We can train more tomorrow.”_

_Then Vaun is suddenly and forcefully stomping up into his personal space.  Quinlan looks down at him, **down** , which he finds somehow lessens the obvious attempt at intimidation.  Vaun rattles at him, deep and low, his lip curved into a scowl…_

_And Quinlan firmly repeats, “No.”_

_And when Vaun reaches out to grab the lapels of Quinlan’s coat, strong and menacing, Quinlan can smell him, can **feel** him…  The worms crawling inside his body, his stinger flexing and twisting intensely inside his throat, the blood leaking out of the gunshot wound in his shoulder…_

_“No,” Quinlan says one last time._

_Vaun shoves Quinlan back with a snarl, and then pounds back to the mouth of their new cave._

_“Egad…” Lar mumbles, quiet, and rattles tensely as he runs off behind Vaun to the cave.  Quinlan sighs, his stomach in a knot and his chest tight, and reaches down to pick up the discarded matchlock._

_Vaun and Lar have both left when he gets back to the nest.  Upon further investigation, one of the other strigoi inform him that they went to the nearby abandoned well to clean themselves.  So he busies himself inside the nest—he considers for a moment taking a few of his comrades out to search for more firearms, but then decides against it.  The sun will be coming up in a couple of hours.  Not much time for an outside excursion._

_Quinlan has already lied down in the nesting tunnel with a few of the others when Vaun and Lar return from their bathing.  He’s removed his clothing— **all** of it, after seventy-five years he’s finally comfortable enough to sleep as they do—and is curled up in his blankets when the two come in and begin undressing.  He can see Lar watching him, staring at him with an unreadable expression, one he has not seen on the creature in all his years there.  _

_Vaun does not look at him, and it **hurts**._

_Quinlan usually sleeps near the two but still alone, some ways away, where there is no chance of touching any of the others in his slumber.  However, as he watches Vaun and Lar settle down together, purring quietly as they wrap themselves in their blankets, he finds himself slowly creeping across the dirt floor.  Closer, closer, until he can reach out and **touch.**   _

_Vaun is pressed into Lar’s chest, his back to Quinlan, and he startles when Quinlan lays a hand on his covered hip.  He turns to look at Quinlan over his shoulder, rattling, and Quinlan stares back into blood-red eyes and he **doesn’t understand.**   _

_“I apologize,” he starts, though he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.  For startling the creature?  For shooting the creature?  For saying **‘no’** when that was obviously not the right answer, even if Quinlan thought it was he **only** answer?  He settles on, “I apologize… for startling you.”_

_“You-you didn’t startle me,” Vaun lies, grumbling.  Then adds, “I was just not expecting the contact.”_

_Quinlan rattles in reply, before amending, “I apologize for startling you… And I **also** apologize for firing at you.”_

_“You did as I told you,” Vaun answers, turning further toward Quinlan.  Their sides brush, their blankets the only layer of cloth between them, and Quinlan watches as Vaun reveals his left shoulder, the one Quinlan had hit.  There is no mark—the bullet has been removed, the blood washed away, and it has healed completely with no scarring whatsoever.  Quinlan finds himself moving his hand to touch the bare skin of the creature’s shoulder, and Vaun asks, “Do you still apologize for firing upon me?”_

_“Yes,” Quinlan answers easily.  “You still feel pain, unless you are **nothing** like myself.”_

_Vaun blinks, silent, before turning away from Lar and around completely to face Quinlan.  Lar purrs gently, repositioning himself so that he is coiled around Vaun’s back instead.  Vaun hums in much the same way, and reaches his hands out under the blanket to lay them on Quinlan’s bare chest.  “You do not need to apologize for firing at me,” Vaun says._

_“But it seems I do need to apologize for something,” Quinlan notes.  “You were quite… **unhappy.** ”_

_“No.  You did nothing wrong,” Vaun says.  His claw-like fingernails dig gently into Quinlan’s skin, and he purrs again before adding, “But please remember.  I’ve led this nest for the past six centuries.  You may be older than I, stronger than I— **Born.**   But this is **my** nest, these are **my** siblings.”_

_Quinlan’s hands find Vaun’s chest and he rattles back, mirroring the other’s posture and sounds.  His heart seems to be beating so heart, and he shuts his eyes as he feels Vaun easing closer, repositioning the blankets around them.  He’s forced to move his hands as Vaun presses them chest to chest, and so his one hand finds the other’s throat while the other rests on his side.  He tries to think over the other’s words, but none of it makes any sense._

_Vaun trills softly, before continuing.  “I still speak for **Them.**   You must defer to me when They have given me orders—after all, They cannot speak to you.”_

_Lar sighs tiredly, throwing an arm over them both.  Vaun presses his face into the soft, thin skin of Quinlan’s throat, and Quinlan finds himself rattling yet again.  The closeness and heat of their bodies is pleasing, and the push of Vaun’s face into the sensitive skin of his throat is satisfying.  “I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” he answers Vaun.  “But all right.”_

_“You’ll know soon enough,” Vaun tells him.  “Soon enough.”_

~*~*~

Quinlan is almost back to the abandoned hotel when he smells him, _feels_ him. 

He braces himself, hearing the creature’s abrupt approach, and twists down just as Vaun slams into his front.  His sudden movement catches the other creature off-balance, but Vaun is quick, trained by the best, and instead of falling he grabs hold of Quinlan’s leather weapons harness.  The pull across his back from Vaun’s momentum unbalances Quinlan, and they both end up rolling to the pavement, grappling for supremacy as they go. 

But of course Quinlan is older, stronger, and most of all _healthy._ He ends up pinning the other creature to the ground underneath him, straddling his waist with one hand on Vaun’s throat.  “Well, I see you’re doing somewhat better,” Quinlan snarls down at him, not really angry about _that._   More indignant that the creature had tried to jump him. 

Vaun rattles up at him furiously, and hisses, “Don’t speak to me, _traitor._ ”  

And while Quinlan had been expecting that, it still hurts.  “I had all intentions…”

“No!  You took the tome and used it as bait!  It could have ended up in the Master’s hands, had things gone bad,” Vaun snaps, twisting in Quinlan’s grip.  His weakness is showing now, however, and it barely takes any effort on Quinlan’s part to keep him on the ground. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Quinlan says tiredly.  “The Master is dead.”

Vaun breaks out in frenzied laughter.  “Oh, you poor, stupid son of a…”

Quinlan slams his hand down harder on Vaun’s throat, ending the creature’s statement abruptly.  “Think carefully over your words,” Quinlan warns him, feeling the other’s stinger flexing violently under his palm. 

“He’s not _dead,_ ” Vaun manages to choke out, causing Quinlan pause.  He continues once Quinlan sits back, releasing him, “There is only one way that I know of—that They know of—to destroy One of the Seven.  And I can assure you beheading is _not_ that way.”

“This entire time, this _entire time,_ ” Quinlan growls, livid.  “They’ve known this entire time, but have not seen fit to share this information with me?”

“They trust you, but Their trust has limits,” Vaun answers.  “They must protect Themselves.”

“How am I supposed to do what needs to be done if I _know nothing_?” Quinlan snarls. 

“You already know everything you need to know,” Vaun tells him.  “You’re just not _thinking._ ”

“And I’m tired of your riddles—or Their riddles,” Quinlan snaps, insulted, and stands up off of Vaun.  And in a knee-jerk reaction, he reaches a hand down to help the creature— _nestmate, comrade, cohort_ —but Vaun shrugs him off and struggles to his feet without help.  His hood falls back as he stands, revealing the burns that are still healing on his face.  He doesn’t look much better than when Quinlan saw him last, but if the confrontation was anything to go by, he must be recovering. 

There’s a deep feeling of relief that spreads through him as he watches Vaun brush himself off, then pull his hood back up.  _He’s alive, he’s not dead.  He is getting better…_

Still, Quinlan finds himself scolding, “You’re foolish coming after me while you’re injured.  And alone?  What happened to how we used to do things?”

“Times change.  We’re forced to do things we’d rather not,” Vaun answers, rubbing idly at his neck where Quinlan had been choking him.  “And anyway, I’ve been feeding well, more often…  It’s been helping.”

“Good,” Quinlan answers, watching the other guardedly.  Silence falls between them momentarily, except for the constant rattle of Vaun’s stinger.  _You’re so loud_ , Quinlan thinks idly.  Then, unbidden, _I’ve missed you and your damned constant noise…_

“The Lumen,” Vaun reminds him, bringing the conversation around full circle.  “ _They_ haven’t forgotten.”

“I’m aware,” Quinlan says.  Then admits, “The situation is… difficult.  The Professor is using artificial lighting to guard it.  Before, two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice.  But having seen you, I am _reluctant_ to step in front of these lights.”

“Yet you swiped it to lure the Master,” Vaun points out, accusing.  Quinlan shakes his head.

“I tricked one of the humans into taking it,” Quinlan confesses.  “I doubt that will work again.”

“Mmm, I see,” Vaun muses.  He takes a long pause, rattling quietly, before offering, “ _They_ told me not to come.  To stay away from you.”

“What?” Quinlan asks, confused by this revelation.  “Then why are you here?”

Vaun smirks, his one remaining eye searching the pavement.  “I am not _always_ a good child,” he answers with a shrug.  “And besides…” he starts, before trailing off as if thinking better of it.

“And why do They want you to stay away?” Quinlan presses.  “I thought you said They trusted me?”

“They do,” Vaun replies.  “But They also know us.  They say our bond is… unique.”

“Ah,” Quinlan responds, the noise devolving into a rattle.  He thinks of Vaun’s words from so many, many years ago.  _We are not simple minions…  We are special to Them._

“Do not approach the Lumen while the lights are on,” Vaun orders suddenly.  The tone of his voice, the authority behind it, makes Quinlan assume the directive is in fact from the Ancients.

And while something inside of him bristles at being commanded, he says, “Don’t fret.  I wasn’t going to.”

“Good,” Vaun answers.  “Good.”

The silence settles again, aside from Vaun’s constant rattles.  Quinlan wonders how long they’ll stand there in the alley staring at each other—unsure whether they’re wordlessly submitting to each other or wordlessly fighting for dominance.

Finally, Vaun says, “Take care of yourself, Born.”

Quinlan’s response rolls off his tongue like a reflex.  “ _Et quoque, frater._ ”

Vaun blinks once in surprise, trilling softly, before answering, “ _Ah, já.  Vinr…_ ”

And Quinlan is frozen in place as he watches Vaun walk away, disappearing into the night.  He pulls his coat tighter around his body, before turning to continue back to the abandoned hotel.  The last of the conversation replays in his mind, involuntarily. 

_Take care of yourself, Born._

_And you as well, brother._

_Ah, yes. **Friend.**_


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. They're appreciated more than you know. 
> 
> I'm expecting there to be one more part after this, and I've updated the chapter number according. Hope you all enjoy!

Quinlan doesn’t know how long the humans have had the information when they see fit to share it with him. 

“We’ve tracked a shipment from Egypt,” the Professor starts, and Quinlan already knows before Abraham even clarifies.

“I must go,” Quinlan says, beginning to leave the hotel.  He’s preempted by Fet.

“Really?  We were hoping you might have an opinion,” he says.  “But no, you’re just gonna leave.”

And yes, Quinlan does have an opinion, as well as quite a few questions.  But nothing that concerns the humans now, not until he knows more.  And he’s not going to tell them more if he does not _have_ to, because this will end up revealing _far_ too much about himself.  So he replies to Fet derisively, “Yes, I’m ‘just going to leave’.”

Fet scowls at him, clearly not impressed.  However, the Professor says, “Please let us know what They say.  I’m sure I don’t need to stress this, but this is of utmost importance.”

And that human?  Is far too smart.  Fet looks over at the other with raised brows, while Quinlan nods once.  “Of course, Professor,” he says.  “As soon as I know something certain, I will share it.”

~*~*~

_The nest travels to Egypt in the mid-16 th century, following after very, **very** concerning correspondences.  _

_While Quinlan has not been to this specific area of Egypt before, he’s been in the heat and bright sun of the desert several times.  The strigoi body is made for cool darkness, the exact opposite of the Egyptian desert, and even Quinlan struggles.  It is so incredibly easy to burn—just the reflection of the sun off the yellow sands can cause discomfort during the middle of the day.  Instead of wearing black coats with hoods, leaving their faces exposed, they take to wrapping their entire heads and faces in shawls during the day, only allowing space for their eyes to peak through.  And while it is no longer the fashion in Egyptian cities, they darken the exposed area around their eyes with kohl to keep the sun’s glare from blinding them._

_In Europe they had been able to move mostly at night, but tracking couriers and communications requires much more daylight activity.  It becomes an inescapable thing to be out in the sun, in the heat, and in the grit.  His stay in Egypt turns out to be one of the more annoying times in his long life—constantly slightly burnt, covered in sand and dust, and for some odd reason, always **leading** the pack of strigoi into Cairo to gather information.  _

_Yet there seems to be one obvious reason the he is the one in charge of speaking to the humans—sometimes peaceful conversations, and sometimes threats at the end of a sword.  Quinlan is the only one in the nest who speaks any amount of Coptic, though his command of the language is shaky at best._

_Vaun assists him when he hits roadblocks in communication, though it’s painfully obvious it is not actually Vaun speaking the language.  The first time Quinlan had started babbling nonsensically to a courier, Vaun had cocked his head to the side with wide red eyes, then spouted out a bunch of horribly-broken Coptic at the poor confused human._

_“What the hell was that?” Quinlan had asked him afterwards._

_Vaun had shrugged sheepishly, and said, “They told me to repeat after Them, but I only caught about half of what was said.  Gods…”_

_They get better after some time, Vaun finding a rhythm of finishing the sentences that Quinlan cannot, but it is never a **good** solution to the language barrier.  _

_The entire nest is clearly from Europe.  Quinlan can judge this simply from the languages spoken, as well as the origin of some of their names.  For instance, Quinlan can recognize ‘Lar’ as an obvious Anglo-Saxon name, and if left to his own devices the creature will speak an amusing mix of Old and Middle English.  And while all of the creatures are multilingual, most will resort to their native language when given the chance, much like Lar._

_In all honesty, Quinlan enjoys it.  He may speak five to six languages in any one day—everything from his native Latin, to the early English languages, to French, Spanish, and German.  He feels his mind more driven and indulged than it has been in years._

_The only one that Quinlan cannot pinpoint is Vaun.  His name is Celtic in origin, Quinlan is almost sure—however when Quinlan hears the other speaking to an Irish strigoi in Gaelic, Quinlan finds his command of the language mediocre at best.  There is no way the creature spoke that language for years as a human._

_And it’s curiosity that drives him to ask one night, tucked away in the dark of the ancient Egyptian tomb they’re calling their home.  Most of the nest is out looking for sustenance, Lar included.  Meanwhile, the few others that have been out in the daylight for the past several consecutive days are taking a much-needed break.  Quinlan’s skin feels much like the hot sand they’ve been traipsing across every day, and his eyes burn from both the dry heat and his exhaustion._

_Vaun’s skin is hotter than usual where he’s curled against Quinlan’s chest, and he’s kicked the blankets off of them and to the side.  Normally Quinlan would mind being so exposed, but they are mostly alone in the nesting chamber, save for another two strigoi woven together in the opposite corner.  That, and Quinlan is hot as well.  So very **hot…**   _

_“Why would any human live here?” Vaun asks, still awake.  The other won’t sleep until daybreak, it’s the way their bodies are hardwired, but Quinlan figures the relaxation is good regardless.  “It is **miserable** here.”_

_“They are accustomed to the sun and the heat.  It’s just part of their existence,” Quinlan answers tiredly.  “This is their home.”_

_Vaun makes a disgusted noise.  Quinlan finds himself grinning._

_“Where is your home?” he asks Vaun, letting his hand casually touch the other’s shoulder, arm, chest…_

_“Here.  With Them, my brothers, you,” Vaun answers, turning a bit to give Quinlan his toothy grin.  “Where is **your** home?”_

_“Here, as well,” Quinlan replies, the words rolling off his tongue so easily.  “But that was not what I meant.  Where **was** your home, when you were human?”_

_Vaun rattles, and evasively asks, “Where was **your** home?”_

_Quinlan rolls his eyes, annoyed at the caginess.  “I was never human, you know that,” he says regardless.  “But I was born in Rome.  You know that as well.”_

_“Mmm,” Vaun murmurs with a rattle.  Then answers, “I was born in Ireland.”_

_While it’s not a lie—the creature manages to get it out without a stutter or slur—Quinlan knows it’s not the entire truth either.  “Yet I’ve heard you speak Gaelic,” Quinlan notes.  “I was not impressed.”_

_Vaun barks a laugh at that, the sound rough and scratchy.  “And I am always so concerned with impressing you with my language skills,” Vaun answers sarcastically.  Quinlan grins.  Then, Vaun adds, “Gaelic is not my native tongue, no, but no one in the nest speaks my native tongue.  So I don’t bother.”_

_“If you don’t speak the language in the nest, then I have never heard it,” Quinlan points out.  “So how do you know I don’t speak it?”_

_Vaun huffs, before answering, “Fair enough.”  Then, “_ **_Ert mjǫk forvitinn._ ** _” **You are very curious…**_

_Quinlan laughs.  It feels good to laugh.  “Norse?  Ah, I know some Norse, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent.”_

_“Sounds a lot like you and Coptic,” Vaun quips, causing Quinlan to elbow him in the side.  Vaun has to retaliate, of course, and they grapple good-naturedly for a few moments before Vaun relents, submitting and stilling in Quinlan’s grasp._

_So Quinlan pulls the other back against his chest, and asks, “So tell me, how did an Irishman end up a Norseman?”_

_“Hmm,” Vaun begins, stalling with a rattle before truly speaking.  “I was born to an Irish family on the western coast of the island.  The small town we were in was raided when I was a child—I was **very** young, I do not remember any of it happening.  They apparently killed all of the men, and took the women and children as captives…”_

_Quinlan rattles quietly to let the other know he’s listening.  He’s fairly sure he already knows where this is going, though._

_“…I was put to work on a ship once I was old enough, and eventually they taught me to fight like the others.  And that was all that I knew—sailing, raiding, fighting.  I mean, I **know** that I was born Irish and was taken from my home, but I guess because I was so young…  What I remember is the Norse woman who cared for me as a child, and the men I fought with and sailed with and drank with.  As far as I was concerned, I was a Viking just like the rest.”_

_“Viking,” Quinlan notes, grinning a bit.  “How very fitting.”_

_“Mmm, how so?” Vaun asks._

_“Sailing the seas during life, only to be sequestered to the land after,” Quinlan answers._

_Vaun laughs at that.  “I have thought about that,” he says honestly.  Then, “I did enjoy being out on the water.  Quite a lot.”_

_“How did They come to find you?” Quinlan thinks to ask.  “Has your Creator told you why It turned you?”_

_Vaun shakes his head, negative.  “Our ship ran aground during a storm and sank, that much I remember myself, from before…  From what They’ve told me, my body washed up on the shore near Their nest.  And so my Creator infected me.”_

_“And you believe that?” Quinlan asks._

_“I have no reason not to,” Vaun answers with a shrug._

_Except in the past two-hundred years, Quinlan has never seen Them infect a human indiscriminately, just because that human happened upon Them.   There is always a greater reason—either that human knows something important or has some wonderfully desirable trait, most usually combat skills, violence, or loyalty._

_Combat skills, violence, and loyalty, **all** of which Vaun has in spades.  _

~*~*~

Quinlan is prepared for a horrible welcome when he steps into the nest.  Still, it’s highly disconcerting when he has the two nighttime strigoi guards escort him down into the interior of the compound.  And then even more so when he gets to the Ancients’ room to find Vaun and Lar flanking the Three on either side, both armed to the teeth. 

“Ah, it’s the Right and the Left Hands,” Quinlan remarks, though neither of the two find this amusing.

Lar plays pointedly with the pistol held in his hand, while Vaun says, “I see you have returned here without the Lumen, _traitor._ ”

Quinlan’s heart sinks.  “Well that was a quick turnaround, _Vinr_ ,” he comments, making use of Vaun’s own word, Vaun’s own language.  He watches Vaun’s expression falter, and he doesn’t enjoy it as much as he expected he would. 

“We’re unsure why you’ve come back, if you don’t have the Lumen to offer,” Vaun says, skating over Quinlan’s combative attitude without comment. 

“I have a question,” Quinlan asks.  “Do you remember Egypt?  In the 1500’s?  I believe we were all there.”

“That’s a difficult time to forget,” Vaun answers wryly.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because I need to know if anyone has heard anything from Cairo about our doings there,” Quinlan says.  “Or at least, has anyone here had correspondence with anyone in Egypt recently?”

“No,” Vaun answers simply, though his one blood-red eye has narrowed suspiciously.  “They want to know why you ask.  Cut to the chase.”

“The Master’s high ranking associates have had a large shipment sent to a warehouse in New York from Cairo,” Quinlan clarifies.  “There is only one thing I can think of that He would be interested in shipping out of Cairo.”

One of the Ancients shrieks, which is all the answer Quinlan really needs.  Still, Vaun replies, “No.  No one here has had communications in Egypt.” 

“And while I feel this question is pointless, I will still ask,” Quinlan starts.  “I assume the Master has not contacted this nest or Them looking for allies?”

Vaun simply shakes his head in the negative, frowning.

“I figured that He would not look to the nest that has been subverting Him for centuries,” Quinlan states.  “But in that case, I do not think I need to explain to you all what this means.”

Vaun nods wordlessly, but no one moves.  They do not step off Their pedestals.  Vaun and Lar do not leave.  **No one moves.**

“Or I thought I didn’t need to explain but…” Quinlan begins, becoming irate.  “The Master will end you!  He will end you all.  He has found another ally, which means he intends to do away this nest.”

“We are safe here,” Vaun says.  “We are deep underground.  He has not lain eyes on us.”

“You are all fools,” Quinlan snarls.  He gets a low, rattling growl from Lar at that, but he doesn’t stop.  “If He and His cohorts do not already know about this place, then He will know soon enough.  You need to leave if you want a continued existence.”

Vaun is silent for a moment, head cocked to the side as he listens to Them.  Finally, he speaks, “We stay.  We’re safe here.”

And Quinlan’s instincts are screaming at him, his stomach and chest so tight.  He wants to grab Vaun, throw the creature over his shoulder, and storm out.  Damn what Vaun says or thinks about it.  He’ll do the same with Lar.  Damn what _any_ of them—or Them—think about it. 

Instead, he draws his blade and points it at the nearest Ancient, the creature shrieking.  He hears Lar pull his second pistol, both of them now trained on Quinlan.  And he hears Vaun cock his rifle, though a glance at the other creature reveals him to be aiming at the floor by Quinlan’s feet.  _Funny…_

“I told you, I told you _all!_ ” Quinlan growls.  He pauses and shakes his head, trying to clear it of the growing haze.  “I told you this would come back on us.  If we had done things the way I _instructed_ , none of this would be happening!”

“You’re out of line,” Lar snarls.

“That is your answer for everything, isn’t it?” Quinlan snaps in return, cutting his eyes over at the other before turning to leave.  He can’t save them if they aren’t willing to save themselves.

His two strigoi escorts follow him out of the Ancients’ room and into the long hallway.  He sheathes his sword as he goes, rumbling to himself, and it’s then he hears the additional set of combat boots tramping on the concrete behind him. 

“Wait!” Vaun calls to him, though Quinlan has already stopped and turned back to look at the other.  Vaun continues, “Are you certain?  You’re sure that it’s the coffin from Cairo?”

“What else would He be having shipped here?” Quinlan asks, rolling his eyes.  “I don’t think He’s concerned with Egyptian relics.”

“Mmm,” Vaun murmurs in reply.  Then, “Come back tomorrow night.  They wish to discuss further action.”

“You realize that I don’t answer to Them,” Quinlan points out.  “I hope They realize this too.  I came here and brought you this information willingly, of my own accord.  What you do with it is up to you.”

“We realize that,” Vaun says.  “But we’d like your assistance.”

And Quinlan can’t help but laugh at that.  “That is funny,” he notes.  “Considering.”

Vaun’s nostrils flare, and he nictates his one inner eyelid.  Then, he drives a nail through Quinlan’s heart… “Please return, if nothing more than for the love you once bore this nest,” Vaun says.  “ _They_ are proud, but we are dangerously close to an end.  And They know it.” 

 _The love you once bore this nest…_ Quinlan purrs, the anger slowly burning out, and answers, “All right.  I’ll be back tomorrow night.  Be ready to discuss strategy.”

“We’ll be expecting you,” Vaun says, and returns Quinlan’s purring with a soft, gracious trill. 

~*~*~

_They find the nest in another tomb, much like the one Quinlan and the others are camped out in themselves—previously opened and raided by treasure hunters, leaving an exposed path just waiting for the strigoi to settle in._

_It’s unclear at first if this is the nest of creatures they **think** it is, or simply another huddle of the Master’s minions.  But one smell inside the tomb and Quinlan is sure—there are in the right place.  Quinlan keeps his gladius at the ready as they enter, Vaun and Lar armed with muskets directly behind him while even more bring up the rear.  He can feel his brothers’ tension and nervousness around him as they crawl deeper down into the depths, making his heart race and his blood run hot.  _

_And he hears Vaun’s voice from behind him, quiet and barely audible, “Calm yourself, nestmate.”_

**_Nestmate._ ** _Singular, not plural.  He’s speaking directly to Quinlan, not the entire group.  And while Quinlan’s first instinct is to lash out at the insubordinate—had Lar tried to give him such instruction, he would most likely have turned around and backhanded the creature…  But his human sentience seems to catch up with him instantaneously, making him pause. **Insubordinate?  What…?**_

_“Don’t stop, keeping moving,” Vaun orders, filling Quinlan’s chest with ire once again, but his moment of personal revelation has come at a most inopportune time.  He hears the enemy strigoi after the others do, only once he sees Vaun’s eyes go wide.  His own firearm-trained brothers back up, preparing to fire, while the others step forward with him and draw their blades._

_However, Quinlan only takes one step further before he sees them ahead in the tunnel.  “Down!” he yells to his own nest.  “They are preparing to fire!”_

_Muskets fire, the bullets whipping past Quinlan’s skull.  None of his brothers grunt or mewl in pain from behind him, so he makes the safe assumption that none of them were hit.  And he advances on the enemies without looking back._

_But muskets fire again, too quickly for the existing gun-wielders to have reloaded, effectively catching Quinlan off-guard.  He manages to dodge the first bullet, but there is little room in the small tunnel to maneuver.  The next two rounds hit him straight on, one in his upper left thigh and the other in the middle of his stomach.  He staggers back with a pained grunt, the silver bullets immediately beginning to burn in his leg and through his gut.  Still, he manages to remain on his feet._

_He hears Vaun shriek from behind him, but Quinlan doesn’t glance back.  He can’t—if they continue to falter they will miss their chance here.  Or worse yet, they will all perish here in this godsforsaken tomb.  “Move!” Quinlan grates out, directing his brothers.  “Take out the musketeers first, then worry about the others.”_

_“Make ready!” Vaun calls from behind him, their signal to duck and dodge their own friendly fire.  Quinlan stumbles into the wall of the tunnel, bending down as far as his burning stomach will allow, and prepares to be hit in the shoulder from behind.  “Fire!”_

_He hears the squeals of the enemy strigoi, hears the clashing of blades ahead in the tunnel.  No bullets hit him—he supposes he should have had more faith in his own nest.  After all, he is the one who taught them to fire their weapons._

_And it’s as he’s staggering forward once again, one hand swinging his sword while the other holds onto his bleeding stomach, that it happens.  The creature streaks through the tunnel, shrieking and knocking Quinlan aside.  And Quinlan can hear Its escape behind him as he falls—the Sixth Ancient slapping his brothers out of Its way as easily as a human swatting flies._

_“ **Faex** ,” Quinlan curses, sliding down the side of the tunnel and closing his eyes.  The sounds of fighting further in are fading, and the smell of his own is still strong.  They’re victorious, at least in this small section of the tunnel.  But the colluding Ancient they were after is gone, once again in the wind.  _

_Their musketeers move forward, Lar and the other strigoi sneaking further into the tunnel to join the last of the fighting.  However, Quinlan is suddenly surrounded by Vaun’s comforting scent, those familiar gloved hands on his shoulders then reaching for his scarred face.  “Vinr, **Vinr** ,” Vaun says, begging.  “Please open your eyes.”_

_Quinlan does so, but only because the other sounds so anxious.  “I am injured,” he tells Vaun needlessly.  Then, remembering Vaun’s shriek when that second round of muskets had fired, “You?  Were you harmed?”_

_Vaun shakes his head, negative.  “We need to get you out of here,” Vaun decides, setting his musket aside in order to lean down and wrap an arm under Quinlan’s shoulder.  Quinlan attempts to shrug him off, but finds immediately that he can’t stand on his own.  He ends up leaning heavily on the other as they make their way up out of the tomb and up into the night._

_Vaun dumps him unceremoniously in the sand outside the entrance, leaving his side long enough to glance around and evaluate the danger.  While the other is busy, Quinlan removes one of his gloves and steels himself for what he has to do.  The bullet must come out of his gut, or he **will** die here in the Egyptian sands.  _

_“What are you doing?” Vaun asks as he comes back and kneels by Quinlan’s side._

_Quinlan doesn’t answer, **can’t** answer.  He only grunts as he begins the dig in the stomach wound for the bullet, closing his eyes against the pain.  _

_“What…?  Stop!” Vaun snaps, grabbing at Quinlan’s hand.  Quinlan growls at the disturbance._

_“It has to come out.  Has to come out **now** ,” Quinlan tells him, pulling away from the other the best he can.  “It’s perforated my bowel… It’s **perforating** my bowel.”_

_“I know, I can smell it,” Vaun says.  And Quinlan might have made a smart comment about that if the situation were different.  As it is, all he can do is groan in reply.  Vaun continues, “Here, just let me get it.  Lie back, let me.”_

_Had it been any of the others—even Lar—Quinlan may have protested.  The idea of having foreign fingers prodding into his body is unpleasant, to say the least.  But this is **Vaun** , so he nods and lies back, removing his hand from his stomach and pushing his sword to the side.  _

_Vaun pulls one of his gloves off, mirroring Quinlan, and leans over his body.  Quinlan stares up into the other’s eyes, Vaun’s blood-red meeting his own silvery-white, and he takes a breath to fortify himself for what is about to happen.  Vaun rips open Quinlan’s loose black tunic from waist to sternum, revealing the entirety of the wound, and then murmurs, “Amicus I adsum. Non erit Licuit.”_

**_I am here, my friend.  It will be alright._ **

_The pain is excruciating, searing, **unbearable** —and Vaun doesn’t let up even when Quinlan begins hissing and scratching at him.  He holds Quinlan down with one strong hand in the center of his chest, and then when Quinlan’s struggling threatens to overpower him, he jerks Quinlan up by the back of the neck and pushes Quinlan’s face against his throat.  _

_And there, sitting pressed against the other’s soft strig swirls, surrounded by the other’s intimate carnal smell, he calms._

_He can still feel the other’s fingers against his stomach, **in** his stomach, but his struggling instinctually ceases and his cries turn to quiet groans and trills of pain.  In the background, seemingly so far away, he can hear his other brothers coming out of the tomb—speaking to each other, speaking to Vaun, rattling in distress…_

_Then Vaun pulls his hand back, hissing at the silver, and tosses the bullet aside.  Quinlan takes a deep breath in relief, the burning pain of the silver in his gut instantly gone.  His perforated bowel will take some time to heal—he feels nauseous now that the burning has subsided, and he is so incredibly cramped and bloated—but the immediate threat to his life is over._

_Quinlan exhales slowly against Vaun’s throat, and the other purrs softly at him in reply, his hand gently petting the intact skin of Quinlan’s stomach.  “There, **Bróðir** ,” Vaun says quietly.  “All is well.”_

_“He still has silver in his thigh,” Lar speaks up.  When Quinlan pulls away from Vaun, he finds their entire group standing around Lar watching.  Watching himself, watching Vaun—seeing his own weakness, seeing him injured, and most of all, seeing Vaun curled over him, around him, comforting him.  Seeing Quinlan **surrender** to a **subordinate.**   _

_He finds himself growling despite himself, pushing Vaun away even though he’d much rather curl into the other’s scent once again.  He can remember his revelation from earlier before everything went to shit.  When did he usurp Vaun— **how** did he usurp Vaun?  And why has Vaun not fought him—why is Vaun instead kneeling in the desert sand digging silver rounds out of his bowels?  _

_“Tell me something I don’t know,” Vaun snaps at Lar.  Then, at the others, “Stop standing around staring!  The camels ran off because of the gunfire.  Go find them, or we’re going to be walking back to our nest.”_

_The others scatter quickly, streaking across the desert in search of the fleeing camels.  Lar lingers for a moment, looking the two over with unease, before moving out to join his brethren.  Quinlan sighs, pressing his face back to Vaun’s throat once they are alone._

_“Lar’s right,” Vaun tells him, still stroking over Quinlan’s stomach with his ungloved hand.  “The silver needs to come out of your thigh.”_

_“I know,” Quinlan says.  Then, knowing the question in his own mind, “When?”_

_“When?” Vaun asks, pulling away to frown at Quinlan.  “Well, now.  I mean, unless you want to wait until we get back to the nest…”  He pauses to smirk.  “But I assume that you don’t want to ride back with a silver round burning up your **punginn**.”_

_“Mmm, very funny.  The silver is not **that** close to my testes,” he answers, dry.  But, “What I meant was, when did I become the… the **dominant** of this nest?” _

_Vaun huffs a laugh, and says, “I knew it…  I told Lar you had no idea what you were doing.”_

_The other’s hands move to Quinlan’s trousers, attempting to rip the already-torn material further to get at the wound.  Quinlan growls, preventing him from ruining the clothing further, and says, “Leave it.  I’ll handle it.”  Vaun removes his hands as instructed, and so Quinlan continues, “I suppose you are right, I didn’t know…  I still don’t.”_

_“It’s all right,” Vaun says, gently assisting as Quinlan uncinches his trousers and pushes them down far enough to get at the thigh wound.  Vaun continues quietly, “I do not mind serving the Born, Quintus Sertorius, the **Invictus**.”_

_The conversation lapses as Quintus presses into the leg wound, grunting and hissing until he recovers the silver bullet.  Then, tossing the silver into the sand, he comments, “Shouldn’t there have been a struggle, or at least a disagreement?  I do not remember…”_

_Vaun laughs, settling down comfortably next to Quinlan in the sand.  “Truly?  Because **I** remember,” he says.  “You got overly authoritative one night, so I tried to bully you into submission.  Your response was, well, somewhat terrifying.  You were **not** obedient.”_

_“Mmm,” Quinlan murmurs, closing his eyes as Vaun leans into his side.  “I scared you?” he asks.  Because while he does not mind being labeled as terrifying, the fact that Vaun found him so makes him… uncomfortable.  “I will not harm you, you must know that.”_

_“Of course I know,” Vaun says, huffing.  “Which is why I didn’t mind.  I know that you will not harm us.  That you will protect us.  And so I will gladly submit to you.”_

_His words stir something deep inside Quinlan’s chest, and he finds himself rattling loudly.  Vaun turns his head and smiles against the soft skin of Quinlan’s throat, purring in reply.  And Quinlan tells him, true and honest, “I will **not** harm you, and I **will** protect you.  I swear it.”_

_Neither of them notice…  As the others begin to return with the lost camels; and as Quinlan rises from the sand, re-cinching his trousers and gathering up his weapon; and as Vaun scouts the area one last time before they leave…  Neither of them take note of Quinlan’s wording._

_‘I will not harm **you** , and I will protect **you**.’  _

**_You._ **

**~*~*~**

Quinlan has barely made it down into the insides of the compound, has just laid eyes on the Ancients and Vaun and Lar, when he smells the Master’s minions swamping the area behind him. 

He stops, his mouth half-open where he’d been about to speak, and tries to listen.  Vaun cocks his head to the side, his one eye narrowed, and asks, “What is it…?”  The question trails off before it is truly finished, the other creature visibly recoiling as the smell hits him as well. 

“You!” Lar yells, stepping forward.  He shoves an accusing finger in Quinlan’s direction, and condemns, “You’ve traitored us!”

“No, no, this was not my doing,” Quinlan says, though judging from the look on Lar’s face, Quinlan doesn’t think he cares at this point.  And not sure who he’s trying to convince, he says, “And this is not my fight.  This is not my…”

“The Born!” comes the eerie voice from behind him.  Quinlan looks back over his shoulder and finds himself staring into red-glow eyes in the German’s body.  _The Master._   “What a pleasant surprise,” He continues.  “We come here looking for the Three, and find Invictus cuddled up amongst the nest just like old times.”

“ _Fututus et mori in igni_ ,” Quinlan hisses, causing the Master to laugh. 

Then Quinlan watches as the Master’s eyes recede to the German’s blue, and watches as the creature presses a button on the silver case in his hand.  The red blinking and peeping is obvious— _bomb!_ —and then the minions run forward as a distraction, beginning to overwhelm the open room.

Quinlan needs to turn and leave, he knows this.  The bomb will collapse this building, and if Quinlan doesn’t escape he will die buried inside.  However instead of making to escape, he turns and finds Vaun amongst the several amassed Sun Hunters.  The creature’s one eye is wide, frightened, though he seems to innately realize that Quinlan is looking at him, and that eye snaps over to meet Quinlan’s gaze.  Quinlan’s heart almost stops. 

“Follow me!” he yells to Vaun.  His momentary lapse means he’s caught off guard as one of the Master’s strigoi leaps onto his back, clawing at the front of his neck, but he shakes the thing off easily. 

Vaun cocks his rifle and shoots the creature on the ground, then backs up amidst the other Hunters, continuing to fire.  Quinlan watches, his heart sinking and his chest tight.

“Vaun!” he growls.  “Come with me!  This place will be your end!”

Vaun looks at him firmly with that one red eye and doesn’t move.  Quinlan snarls, turning away and preparing to leave.  _I can’t save him if he isn’t willing to save himself…_   So he starts down the long hallway leading out of the compound, pressing forward through the throng of aggressive strigoi. 

He is focused, in the midst of life-or-death combat, when the sound of the pump-action rifle behind him brings him up short.  He whirls, firing his uzi where the noise had been, and finds Vaun speeding along the hallway, barely avoiding the shots Quinlan had fired. 

“It’s me.  Don’t shoot,” Vaun shouts, drawing even with Quinlan.  Then, “Don’t stop, keep moving.  There’s a bomb.”

“I know, I _know_ ,” Quinlan answers irritably.  Even though he’s not cross with the other, no.  His heart is singing now at the sight of him.  He feels energized and ready and _alive._   “Let’s go, push forward.”

Except Vaun is still not himself, not the creature that Quinlan remembers fighting next to all those years ago.  He’s slower, his dashed charges not at all what they used to be—and his aim with the rifle is off, Quinlan assumes due to his burnt-away eye.  And Quinlan worries more the further they move, because it is taking them _far too long._  

“Go!  Leave me, _Vinr_ ,” is the last thing Quinlan hears as they sprint forward together, before the building crumbles around them, and his world goes momentarily black. 

When he awakes, he’s in the dark, cramped and in pain.  Crushed and closed in by the fallen debris, he attempts to move the concrete pieces lying over him with a solid push, and breathes in relief when they tumble away easily.  From there, he’s left staring up at the night sky, taking stock of his surroundings. 

He’s been injured, that much is clear.  His lower back and hip ache deep, down in the bone, though it’s difficult to discern the exact nature or severity of the injury while lying down.  He listens, but he can’t hear anything except the aftermath echo of the explosion ringing in the air.  And he smells, but he can’t smell anything except dirt, dust, and dead strigoi. 

Which is when, through the haze of shock and pain, he realizes…  _Vaun._  

“Vaun!” he yells, trying to leverage himself up to stand.  He right leg won’t support his weight, though, the pain through his thigh and pelvis agonizing.  He’s at the very least dislocated his hip joint, if not shattered his pelvis.  “ _Deodamnatus_ ,” he snarls, grimacing through the pain, then again, “Vaun!!”

As if on cue, a piece of broken concrete to his left is suddenly shoved aside, and Quinlan watches in relief as the other creature slowly crawls out from under the rubble.  Though his relief is short lived once Vaun struggles to his feet and stands staring silently out into the night for several long seconds, then sinks back to his knees with a high, guttural shriek. 

It’s a noise unlike any Quinlan has heard from the other before—loud, unearthly, and tormented.  “Vaun!” Quinlan tries again, though the other pays him no mind.  “Vaun, brother, come.  We have to leave here.”

Vaun goes silent, but continues to simply stare out into the night.  And something occurs suddenly to Quinlan…  The Ancients were below in that building—the Ancients, including Vaun’s Creator—all most likely killed in that explosion.  Which leaves whatever connection Vaun had had with that Ancient severed.  Quinlan’s heart grows cold.

“Vaun?” he says, a question now.  “Vaun, can you hear me?  Are you…?”  _Are you still there, nestmate?_

Vaun turns around and looks at him, though his look is blank.  Quinlan finds himself grinding his teeth, looking the other creature up and down.  The other’s left shoulder is hanging too low, dislocated in the collapse, and there’s a deep gash on his cheek, a few worms wiggling their way through the broken skin.  But otherwise he’s managed to escape unscathed, and now he’s their ticket out of this mess—that is, if his mind is still… present.

“Vaun, **Vaun!** ” Quinlan snaps, reaching a hand out to beckon the other over.  Vaun stares for a long moment before staggering over, still silent, and then kneeling down in front of Quinlan.  His one red eye is so wide, and Quinlan gazes into it as the other cocks his head to the side, very obviously trying to listen.  His one good hand finds Quinlan’s thigh. 

Meanwhile Quinlan slowly but surely places one hand on the Vaun’s bum shoulder, takes hold of the creature’s bicep in his other hand, and _shoves…_

Vaun squalls as his shoulder snaps back into place, jerking away from Quinlan and falling back on his rump.  “Easy,” Quinlan tells him.  Then, “I apologize.”

And then, much to Quinlan’s utter and complete relief, Vaun answers, “It’s fine.  Needed to be done.”

“You are… okay?” Quinlan asks, watching in concern as the other grabs his head in his hands, trilling in distress.  “Brother?”

“I can’t…  It’s so _quiet._   They’re gone?” he says.  Then, before Quinlan can offer an answer, “They’re gone.  They’re _all_ gone.  _Ó guð minn_ …”  **_Oh my god…_**

And Quinlan feels for him—his brother is in pain, he can’t _not_ feel for him—but their situation is perilous.  He can afford to collapse under these emotions later, but _not now._   “Come, collect yourself.  We have to leave here,” Quinlan tells him.  “They’ll scout this area for survivors.  We need to be gone before then.”

Vaun scrubs his hands over his bald scalp and nods once before standing.  “You’re right,” he says.  “You’re right, let’s go.”

He takes two steps away before he realizes Quinlan isn’t following, that Quinlan hasn’t even stood from the ground.  He looks back in concern, and Quinlan has to bite back his pride in order to say, “I require assistance.  I’m injured.”

Vaun rattles at him, coming back to help him to his feet.  Even with his small stature he takes Quinlan’s weight easily, his uninjured arm curled around Quinlan’s waist while Quinlan leans against his side.  “Your hip?” Vaun asks, watching Quinlan keenly. 

“Yes.  Either dislocated or broken, I’m unsure,” he answers.  Then, “I have somewhere safe we can go, at least for now.”

“All our vehicles were in the compound,” Vaun says, frowning.  “There’s nothing to…”

“I drove here,” Quinlan interrupts.  “The car is a block down.  I have the keys in my pocket.”

“Of course.  Okay, point the way,” Vaun answers, beginning to drag Quinlan forward.  Quinlan cannot bare weight on his right leg, causing him to hobble heavily against Vaun’s side, and they almost fall in the rubble after only a few steps.  “This is going to be a long walk,” Vaun comments as they finally clear the wreckage and make it out onto the sidewalk, and Quinlan knows he speaks the truth. 

They try to keep mostly to the shadows, under the overhangs of the city’s roofs where the streetlamps do not shine.  The explosion has started to draw human attention, emergency vehicles with flashing lights streaking down the middle of the road, all despite the curfew.  And of course regardless of their caution, a vehicle slams on its brakes as it approaches, plain white lights flashing wildly. 

“ ** _Matris_** _**futuor**_ ,” Quinlan hisses, trying to shove Vaun back further into an alley, but the damage has already been done.  Two militiamen exit the vehicle, both shining flashlights in their direction.

“Sirs, are you both alright?” the first says, obviously having noticed Quinlan’s staggering limp. 

“There’s a curfew in effect,” the second adds, a reprimand. 

And while both his and Vaun’s hoods are up, concealing their inhuman faces, the rattling Vaun continues making from the center of his chest is classically strig.  And there is nothing to conceal _that_ noise from the two men. 

It all happens so quickly.  One of the militiamen pulls their assault rifle and fires, but Vaun pulls he and Quinlan both to the side, effectually dodging the spray.  And then with rapid precision, Vaun pulls his sidearm and downs the two men consecutively—one shot in the stomach and one shot in the chest. 

 _Aim is still off,_ Quinlan thinks.  _Three hundred years ago, you would have caught them between the eyes._

Vaun shuffles them both forward, depositing Quinlan next to the closest fallen soldier.  “Drink,” Vaun orders, and Quinlan growls quietly in return.  Vaun persists, “Drink.  You’re injured, your body needs it.”

And Quinlan knows he speaks the truth, so he drags himself closer, looking down at the human.  The man is still conscious, staring up at Quinlan’s unearthly face in abject terror.  It has been many years since Quinlan has seen that look—the fear of a knowing human, expecting the stinger and the feeding.  It has been many centuries since he’s enjoyed that look. 

“I am sorry, Soldier,” he tells the human quietly, before he opens his mouth and lets his stinger find the man’s carotid. 

They feed quickly, Vaun bent over the other downed human, and they pause only to break the bodies’ necks before fleeing the scene.  And somehow, by some miracle, they make it to his black sports car without further incident. 

And while it feels like days have past, it hasn’t even been a full hour since the explosion when they reach his humans’ hotel.  Quinlan sighs heavily as Vaun parks the car in front of the building.  Vaun rattles back softly. 

“This is it?” Vaun verifies.  Then, at Quinlan’s nod, “Let’s go, then.”

They stagger inside the building, to the elevator, and up.  And Quinlan is trying to decide what he will tell the humans—and at the same time, what he _won’t_ tell the humans—when he realizes…  “They’ve left.”

“What?” Vaun asks as they stumble out onto the top floor. 

“The humans.  They’re gone—they have another place that they sleep occasionally,” he explains.  “ _Gratias ago deorum._ ”

“Mmm,” Vaun hums, pushing them forward and into the Presidential Suite.  “The human Sun Hunters live here?”

Quinlan nods an affirmative in reply, then grunts when Vaun drops him unexpectedly onto the couch in the foyer.  “Ugh…” he groans, trying to stretch into a comfortable position, something that is impossible.  _I **hurt** , brother_, he thinks idly, closing his eyes. 

He hears a _thud_ and a _thump_ , and turns his head to see Vaun settling in on the carpet next to him.  The other is filthy, covered in the dust and dirt from the building collapse, and he has his own white blood smeared across his healing cheek as well as red blood smeared across the other cheek.  _Still a messy eater, apparently,_ Quinlan thinks.And he notices that all the other has on him is his sidearm, a standard Colt pistol.  He must have lost the rifle during the explosion—shame, that had been a fine weapon. 

Vaun’s one eye is closed, and for the first time since his return, Quinlan has a still and unobstructed view of the other’s empty socket.  The charred skin is gone, leaving thick scar tissue in its place.  There is no twitching, no movement behind the scar—the nerves once attached to the eye are all clearly gone.  He’s lost the eye permanently, there’s nothing there left to heal. 

“I am _exhausted_ ,” Vaun murmurs, shaking Quinlan from his thoughts.  “It’s night.  I shouldn’t be this tired.”

Quinlan finds himself rolling to the side, letting himself slide off the couch and onto the floor.  He thankfully lands on his uninjured hip, but the movement still causes him to grunt in pain.  “You were just hurt,” Quinlan reminds him, meeting the other’s gaze when he turns to look at him.  “And you don’t seem to have completely recovered from the systemic damage you endured weeks ago.”

“Perhaps,” Vaun relents, turning to the lay on his side toward Quinlan.  He reaches a hand out, tentative, and places it in the center of Quinlan’s chest.  Quinlan’s breathe seems to still in his lungs.  Then, Vaun moves his hand to one of the leather straps over his shoulder, pulling gently, and says, “Take this off before you sleep.  You’ll end up stabbing yourself in the back if you aren’t careful.”

“The sword is sheathed,” Quinlan tells him, rolling his eyes, but sits up nonetheless to remove the leather harness and his gun holsters, laying everything aside carefully. 

He waits as Vaun de-arms himself, as well as removes the thick bulletproof vest from around his chest, then lies back down next to the creature.  Vaun’s hands find his chest hesitantly once again, gloved fingers playing with the heavy material of his coat. 

Quinlan sighs, and finds his own hands reaching out as well.  A sudden, deep exhaustion has hit him—his body is working to heal itself, all while he is sated and satisfied, has had his fill to drink and is curling up to sleep with a nestmate. 

And then Vaun says softly, sorrowfully, “They are gone.  _All_ gone.  I am _alone._ ”

“No,” Quinlan says, vehement.  He’s never been more sure of anything in his long life.  “No, you are _not_ alone.”

“ _They_ are gone,” Vaun simply repeats.  “I can’t hear Them.”

“You are not alone,” Quinlan says.  “I am here now.”

Vaun trills in reply, grabbing the lapels of Quinlan’s coat to drag himself closer.  And the slide of thigh against thigh, the press of chest against chest, the warmth of Vaun’s face pressed into the soft skin of Quinlan’s throat—it’s all so wonderfully, heartbreakingly familiar.  Quinlan throws an arm around Vaun’s waist, holding him close, and Vaun rattles loudly, continuously, as if trying to drown out the silence in his head. 

“I am here now,” Quinlan repeats to him.  “I am here now, and we will finish this _together._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations not already clarified in the writing—and a disclaimer, I’m not fluent in either Latin or Norse, so most of my translations are googled. Any errors are mine, and I apologize in advance…
> 
> Faex: Shit (Latin)
> 
> Bróðir: Brother (Old Norse)
> 
> Punginn: Sack/Pouch; vulgar term for Ballsack (Old Norse/Icelandic)
> 
> Fututus et mori in igni: Fuck off and die in a fire (Latin)
> 
> Matris futuor: Motherfucker (Latin)
> 
> Gratias ago deorum: Thank the gods (Latin)
> 
> Deodamnatus: Dammit/Goddammit (Latin—probably don’t need to clarify that one considering , lol)
> 
> Vinr: A respected friend, specifically a leader or protector (Old Norse)


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 4 / Final Part  
> I'm including a writer's edit at the end if anyone is interested. Comments are adored and loved!<3

Quinlan wakes up suddenly, his eyes snapping open as he sucks in a deep breath. 

He’s confused at first by his own rousing—it’s morning, the blinds drawn to keep the strong UV out, the room lit with just the softest glow of daylight.  His partner from the nest is sleeping soundly against his chest, wrapped in Quinlan’s arms, the other’s soft sleep rattles steady and consistent.  He takes a moment to pull Vaun’s hood farther across his face, covering him more, even though the creature was in no real danger from the light. 

It was not the instinctual, dominant need to protect that awoke him.  Vaun is fine.

Quinlan is still in pain, his hip gripped with a deep ache, but he had been sleeping through that before.  In fact, his body will heal faster with sleep—it’s not like him to wake while he’s trying to heal in safety. 

Which is when he smells them.  _Humans._  He has a moment of alarm—they’re not safe after all—until he recognizes their smells.  It’s _his_ humans; the Professor, the Doctor, the Exterminator, and the Dutchess.  The moment of apprehension passes, only to be replaced immediately by dread.  The humans are exiting the elevator, will be in the hotel suite soon, and he and Vaun are lying on the floor in the foyer. 

Quinlan’s hip is throbbing, he is still exhausted, and he does _not_ feel like explaining his own injury and Vaun to the silly humans right now. 

He leverages himself up to lean on an elbow, looking down at Vaun, and grabs the other’s shoulder with his free hand.  “Vaun,” he hisses, trying to remain quiet.  “Brother, wake up.”

Vaun growls, his slow sleepy purrs ceasing abruptly, and he quickly jerks his shoulder away from Quinlan.  “Oww,” he snaps, rattling threateningly.  “Watch the shoulder, still hurts.”

Quinlan lets go, frowning.  “I apologize,” he says, though once released, Vaun simply curls back up against Quinlan’s body.  Quinlan grunts, trying to gently shove him away, but Vaun growls back, unhappy at his resistance.  “The humans are coming,” Quinlan tells the other, shoving one last time.  “We need to get up.”

Vaun pauses, lifting his head away from Quinlan in order to listen and smell, before his one eye goes wide.  He opens his mouth to say something, but he never gets the chance to voice his thoughts.  The door to the suite swings open, leading into the foyer, and he and Vaun both watch with shocked expressions as the humans enter.

“What the…” Fet says, taking a step back and pulling his gun, eyes on Vaun.  The Dutchess steps behind him quickly, while Vaun reaches for his sidearm and Quinlan reaches for his uzis.  Quinlan curses as he realizes he’d taken off his holsters, his guns set away from him on the floor.  Vaun curses as well, but grabs wildly at his hip and thigh, as if hoping his pistol and holster will miraculously materialize. 

And Quinlan is already preparing himself to roll over on top of Vaun, to shield him from any bullets the Exterminator may fire.  The man doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that Vaun isn’t a danger to them.  But then the Professor steps in, barking, “No!  That’s a Sun Hunter.  It’s from the Ancients!”

Quinlan feels himself bristling at that.  “ _He_ has a name,” he snaps at the lot of them, lip curled into a snarl.

The other three humans are staring at them in absolute shock.  Fet thankfully lowers his weapon, but Quinlan can only imagine how he and Vaun look.  Covered in dirt and dust, their firearms and his sword tossed aside, lying on the floor—and even though they’ve repositioned themselves in their hunt for weapons, they’re still incredibly close together.  Their stomachs and groins are pressed together, one of his thighs slid between Vaun’s, their legs intertwined. 

To Quinlan?  This means warmth and safety—closeness and comfort—after they’ve both endured fear and injuries from the explosion…  But he knows humans, and he knows what it means to _them_. 

“What’s going on here?” Fet asks, watching in confusion as Quinlan and Vaun disentangle themselves from each other.  Vaun stands, leaving dirt ground into the cream-colored carpet, and blinks down at Quinlan with both his inner and outer eyelid. 

Ignoring the Exterminator’s question, Quinlan attempts to stand as well.  He grimaces in pain as he tucks his legs underneath himself, his hip violently protesting the movement, and can’t help but grunt and gasp as he forces himself up to his feet.  Vaun reaches a hand down to help, and Quinlan takes it, but only for a second.  Just long enough to steady himself, to find his balance.  His hip is not dislocated, at least not anymore, but he can feel it popping and cracking when he puts weight on it.  He keeps his weight leaned on his good leg. 

Vaun still has that smear of red human blood dried across his cheek.  _Wonderful…_

“What has happened, Mr. Quinlan?” Abraham asks, frowning at their appearance.  “What did the Ancients say?”

“My Creator is dead,” Vaun answers, before Quinlan can offer an answer of his own.  “My Creator and Its Siblings are dead.”

“Mmm,” Quinlan rattles, affirmative.  “There was an explosion.  We were caught in it.”

“You’re the only one of Theirs that survived?” Abraham continues his questioning, directed at Vaun. 

Quinlan answers for him, “Yes.  He’s the only one left.”

Vaun nods, silent.  Quinlan can remember the night before, the other’s words.  ‘ _I can’t…  It’s so **quiet.**   They’re gone.  They’re all gone.  **Ó guð minn.** ’_

Quinlan doesn’t want to answer more questions, not right now.  He wants to lie back down with his nestmate, to hold and comfort the other.  He wants to be out of these dirty and dust-covered clothes, and he wants to clean himself, especially his face, to wash the grit and dirt from his eyes.  His body needs to heal, then he will answer questions. 

“Did you discover anything before…?” Abraham starts, but Quinlan preempts him.

“I apologize, Professor,” he says.  “But it has been an incredibly long night—we had a building collapse on us both not long ago.  I am still injured, and we both need rest.”  He takes a breath, huffing a sigh before finishing.  “I will do my best to answer your questions later, this afternoon.  But do give us some time.  We were not prepared for your return.”

“Yeah, we all get you weren’t prepared for us,” Fet says, humorously.  Quinlan rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll be here, Mr. Quinlan,” Abraham says, ignoring Fet.  Then, peering over Quinlan’s shoulder, “Your name was Vaun?  If I remember correctly…”

“Mmm,” Vaun murmurs, nodding.  He’s begun rattling again, loud and overt like he’d been the night before.

“Then Mr. Quinlan, Mr. Vaun,” Abraham says, nodding to them as he finally walks fully into foyer.  “I’ll speak to you both later.”

Quinlan doesn’t respond.  He just reaches down to pick up his weapons, then takes Vaun by the shoulder to lead the other away.  Meanwhile, the other humans chirp up to join Abraham’s last statement…  “I’ll be here, too!”  “We should all discuss our plans, don’t you think?”  “I wasn’t planning on leaving right away.”

“Mr. Quinlan…” Vaun comments, smirking as they make their way down the small hallway to Quinlan’s room. 

“Mr. Vaun…” Quinlan counters, a grin finding its way to his lips even amidst his pain and fatigue. 

“At least Vaun is actually my name,” Vaun says, standing aside while Quinlan lets them both into his room. 

“Mmm, I was trying to modernize myself,” Quinlan answers. 

“Ah, the eternal struggle,” Vaun says, wandering inside the bedroom while Quinlan shuts the door behind them.  “Trying to act like you’re _not_ a thousand years old.”

“Just wait until you’re my age,” Quinlan replies.  Vaun huffs at him.

Quinlan takes a moment once in the room to just breathe.  Vaun goes over to the bed, laying his gloved hands on the white sheets and leaning over.  He’s smelling, Quinlan knows, he’s finding Quinlan’s scent in the sheets.  He watches as the other sinks to his knees, pushing his dirty face against the bed, and Quinlan thinks, _I’m here, **Frater** , you can press your face to my skin if it will comfort you…_

He can hear the humans talking out in the living area, their voices faint but audible.

“Am I the only one upset that we got two munchers in here with us now?” – “Mr. Quinlan is Born, he’s not…” – “The other one, though.  That one’s the real deal.  Full muncher.” – “…yes.“

“Wait, did no one else see what I saw when we walked in here?” – “They were… sleeping?” – “Nah, man.  Nah.”

“Do you think that other one—Vaun—do you think that’s Quinlan’s… lover?” – “Miss Velders…” – “That’s not really possible, ya know, considering their _situation_.” – “Well, actually, funny story…”

_“Doctor Goodweather!”_

Quinlan finds himself bristling at the overheard conversation, a growl escaping his throat unbidden.  Meanwhile, Vaun pants out a startled laugh, rolling back on his haunches to sit on the floor.  He grabs the sheet as he goes, pulling it halfway off the bed with the motion, and looks up Quinlan.  “Come over here, _lover_ ,” Vaun says, obviously amused. 

“Hmm,” Quinlan grunts, frowning down at the other.  Vaun finishes pulling the sheet off the bed, then reaches for the pillows. 

“Oh, stop huffing and growling,” Vaun tells him, rolling his one eye.  “They’re stupid humans.  They don’t understand.  Now come over here and lie down with me…”  Then adds, quietly showing some lingering vulnerability, “ _Please._ ”

Quinlan watches him, watches as the other begins to unlace his combat boots.  And not thinking about it, just doing what feels natural, he sits down on the edge of the bed to pull off his own boots.  Then he removes his heavy outer coat and hooded sweatshirt, then his vest and undershirt.  He pauses momentarily at his belt as his actions begin to catch up with him, but he continues after a glance at Vaun—sees the other removing his knee pads, his belt already taken off and set to the side.

He gets a good look at his hip once his pants and briefs are removed.  The skin over his hipbone down to the top of his thigh is darkened, yellowed and bruised.  He groans as he lowers himself down into the nest Vaun has made for them, finally letting himself relax into the pillows and sheets.  “I will shower after I sleep more,” Quinlan tells Vaun.  “I hope I am not offending you.”

“You didn’t see me wash, did you?” Vaun asks, curling up against Quinlan.  Then, after a brief pause, “We used to sleep on the dirt floors of caves, remember?”

“I do,” Quinlan answers simply.  He can recall it like it was yesterday, especially now, with Vaun in his arms once again. 

“And so why would you think the dirt on your skin offends me?” Vaun scoffs, quiet, and presses his face into Quinlan’s jaw.  Quinlan closes his eyes, not answering, and purrs at the sensation.

Things grow quiet, no movement save for Vaun’s gentle nuzzles against Quinlan’s throat and Quinlan’s soft caresses along Vaun’s back, no sounds except for their low, affectionate rattles and trills.  Quinlan would think the other had fallen asleep, except Vaun’s rattling is still intermittent, not steady with slumber.  Eventually he settles a firm hand on Vaun’s waist, and says, “You should try to sleep.”

“It’s so _silent_ ,” Vaun answers, quiet and fragile.  But then his voice takes on a different tone, firm and commanding, _normal_ , “I want you to know something.”

Vaun doesn’t clarify immediately, so Quinlan hums questioningly, “Hmm?”

“If you leave me again…” Vaun says, then pulls away from Quinlan’s throat to look him in the eye.  His gaze is resolute, unflinching.  He continues, “If you leave me again, I _will_ hunt you down.  Fuck the prophecy—I’ll end you myself before you can touch Him.”

They’re strong words, haunting, especially with the way Vaun is glaring at him through his one blood-red eye.  Still, Quinlan huffs and says, “You cannot defeat me in combat.  Don’t issue empty threats.”

Vaun growls at him in reply, and says, “Then _you_ will be forced to do away with _me_.”  Quinlan growls back with those words, but Vaun isn’t deterred, “If you leave me again, I will come for you.  Know that.  I am not going to go through that… _bereavement_ … again.”

“So your solution for that is to… kill me or have me kill you?” Quinlan snarls.

“No,” Vaun says, voice softening. He settles back into Quinlan, nosing against the other’s cheek, and continues, “My solution is to have you not leave again.  But I never thought you would leave me to begin with, and you don’t know what I went through, back then.  I’m not going through that again.”

Quinlan turns his face, pressing his nose into Vaun’s.  “Perhaps I know more than you think,” Quinlan tells him, a quiet confession.

“Mmm,” Vaun murmurs.  “Perhaps.”

They purr and trill quietly at each other—affection and apologies needing no words.  Vaun presses closer, sliding a thigh in between Quinlan’s, making himself comfortable.  Quinlan closes his eyes, draping his arm easily over the other’s side.

He falls asleep feeling as though he’s come home.

~*~*~

_Quinlan leaves the nest in the late 18 th century._

_He’s been developing unspoken issues with the nest for a full century—his brothers’ unquestioning allegiance to the Three, the Three’s increasing complacency, and of course…  Their sudden unexplainable decision to travel across the ocean and settle in the New World.  But at the same time, the nest backs Quinlan with power, knowledge, and opportunity.  Within the nest, he finds comfort and companionship.  The nest is his **home.**   _

_And for years, all these years, he has believed that the nest made him safer, stronger, more formidable…  Until he realizes that maybe the relationship is more complex than first thought._

_They’re raiding a French armory in Upper Louisiana just after midnight, stealing weapons and ammo, when the heavy cannon fires at them for the first time.  It caves in the wall of the gunroom he, Vaun, and Lar are emptying, sending the three scurrying for cover._

_“Zounds!” Lar curses, peering around the edge of the broken wall he’s crouched behind.  “What the hell…?”_

_“ **How** is there anyone on a cannon?” Vaun snarls from next to Quinlan.  “We cleared out this whole place!”_

_“Apparently we missed a few,” Quinlan says, easing himself up to peek over the edge of his cover.  “I see four men, cannonade on the far east corner.”_

_“Do you have a plan?” Lar asks._

_“Not presently,” Quinlan growls back.  The cannon-fire has buckled this side of the building and crumbled the stairs to the upper level—not that Quinlan is sure the upper level is stable enough to support their weight.  The only way out is through the front and across the training field, right in the firing path of the cannon.  “Shit, where are the rest of our brothers?” he grumbles._

_“I don’t know,” Vaun says.  Then, pointing across the training fields to the wooden barricades on the far side, he says, “That way, let’s go.  Before they get the cannon reloaded.”_

_“Are you daft?” Quinlan snarls.  “That is taking us right through their line of fire.  And what do you propose we do once over there—those wooden blockades are **not** going to stop rounds from a cannon.”_

_Vaun visibly bristles at Quinlan’s refusal.  “If you have a better idea,” he snaps, “I’m all ears.”_

_“Well, we can’t stay here,” Lar points out.  “They obviously know where we are, they’ll hit us again.”_

_“I know,” Quinlan and Vaun both growl simultaneously.  Quinlan finds himself looking over at his other with a low rumble, trying to come up with a strategy.  He glances over at the broken stairs, wondering if he’d discarded that option before giving it fair consideration.  But a glimpse up at the partially caved-in ceiling has him deciding against that opportunity once again—the chance the upper level will support three strigoi’s weight is slim to none._

_“We’ve waited too long,” Vaun says worriedly, scooting closer to Quinlan behind their smashed half-wall.  “They’re…”_

_Vaun never manages to finish, and as if on cue, the thundering sound of the heavy cannon firing permeates the night.  Quinlan ducks down hard, his side pressed tightly to the remaining stump of the stone wall, and feels Vaun and Lar both huddle against him, Vaun to his front and Lar to his back.  He presses his face to the top of Vaun’s bald head, and can feel Lar burrowing his face into the back of his own coat…  And then their remaining crumpled cover is blown away as the round shot slams into them._

_Quinlan is thrown back by the blow, the stones of the wall bursting into rubble around them, but he scrambles up immediately.  He’s uninjured, feeling shocked from the blast but fortunately not wounded, and he looks around himself, trying to quickly formulate a plan.  He finds Lar behind him, scrambling up from the floor as well, and then looks around for Vaun.  And with a sinking heart, he finds his other crawling around on the floor, his eyes wide, obviously attempting to stand but failing._

_“ **Confabulo**?” Quinlan asks, concerned.  And as he dashes across the room, he watches as Vaun opens his mouth, his stinger unfurling from within like a deadly blossom, and expels an oozing dribble of white blood from the end of the proboscis.  Quinlan sinks to his knees, taken aback, and curses, “ **Faex** …”_

_He’s only seen that behavior—the display of the appendage and the subsequent spit up—once before.  The creature had been stabbed in the throat, directly through the meat of the stinger toward the brainstem, and the strigoi had spit up blood for barely a minute before collapsing in death.  Quinlan had assumed the death was due to an injury to the brain, but watching **his other half** show the same illness causes a primitive sort of anxiety to grip his gut and chest.  _

_“Get me a musket!” he yells at Lar, his voice authoritative and commanding—completely at odds with how he feels.  Vaun looks up at him with wide red eyes, seeming to force the proboscis back into his throat, and clutches his chest with one gloved hand._

_“Musket?” Lar asks, running over to Vaun’s side.  Then, “Vaun, brother?!”_

_“Musket, now!” Quinlan snaps, turning his eyes back to the east to see the humans handling the rounds by the cannon, preparing to reload.  Quinlan points a finger a Lar, repeating, “ **Now!!** ”_

_Lar scurries away from Vaun’s side at Quinlan’s shout, rushing over to the muskets scattered on the floor against the back wall.  He returns with one of the few flintlocks still intact, along with a half-spilled cartridge box, and hands everything off to Quinlan quickly.  He’s back down by Vaun’s side before Quinlan can even get into position._

_And Quinlan is aware on a conscious level that he should be moving.  He’s directly in the path of danger—the next cannonball could be his end, could crush his skull and brain and kill him.  But something he can’t name keeps him right where he is, standing on top of the rubble of the demolished wall, a living barrier between the cannon and his brothers._

_He prepares to fire at the humans stationed at the cannon, hearing scuffling from behind him as Vaun attempts to stand, and then hefts the weapon up into position.  He curses as he tries to aim, knowing that they are much too far away for an accurate shot—he should move, find a better position.  His chances of survival are better, his chances of killing the cannoneers are better, and it may even take the attention off of Vaun and Lar, drive the cannoneers to follow Quinlan’s movement across the field._

_However, his brothers are there behind him, **his partner** is there behind him, and everything deep in his very being tells him that he shouldn’t leave them.  That he **can’t** leave them.  So he aims the flintlock the best he can and fires, hoping beyond all hope that it makes contact.  _

_He hears one of the men scream in pain, and watches him stumble away from the cannon.  The men start yelling orders as Quinlan goes to reload, and it’s only seconds before he hears the clear command—“ **Tirer**!”  **Fire!**_

_And Quinlan does it as instinctively as breathing…  He dives backwards, the flintlock forgotten about, and drops to the ground next to Vaun and Lar, curled **over** Vaun and Lar.  Protecting, defending, shielding them from the inevitable blow.  _

_There’s the thunderous **boom** of the cannonade firing, the split-second of agonizing pain blooming across his back sending him flying across the gunroom, and then complete, utter blackness._

_He wakes up in the dark, in the quiet, his body dully aching.  When he opens his eyes to glance around himself, he realizes he is at home, in the nest—or at least, in the basement of the colonial style farmhouse they’ve cleared out for temporary use.  He pulls a deep breath into his lungs, and then smells him.  Vaun._

**_Vaun._ ** _The reason for so many, many things…_

_Quinlan hears the other creature then, his purrs so soft and gentle they’re barely audible.  He looks toward the noise, and finds him sitting nearby, his eyes so very dark that only the whites are visible.  “How long?” he asks, knowing Vaun won’t need clarification._

_“Mmm, you’ve been out for a little over a day,” Vaun murmurs at him, before rolling himself to his hands and knees and crawling across the floor to Quinlan’s side.  He settles back down, still purring, and reaches a hand out to lay it on Quinlan’s forehead._

_Quinlan shrugs him off—not because he wants to, he instinctively **craves** the comfort—but because he is now consciously, acutely aware of what he’s become.  The action causes Vaun to lean back with a frown, pulling his own hand back toward himself.  Quinlan shakes his head, and asks, “What happened?”_

_“We were fired on by the cannon— **you** were fired on by the cannon.  You took the brunt of the force, Lar and I only sustained minor breaks,” Vaun says, looking down at his wrist and flexing his hand.  “Your back was broken, though.  We carried you out unconscious.”_

_And Quinlan has already figured out this much, at least that he’d been carried out unconscious.  However, there are more questions yet unanswered.  “You—You were spitting up blood,” Quinlan says.  And then, before Vaun can answer, “The cannon…?”_

_“The others took the cannoneers out before they could fire again,” Vaun explains.  Then, his eyes dropping to the floor, “As for me, I am not quite sure what happened.  I believe one of my ribs may have cracked, punctured my proboscis—I’ve never experienced something like that before, it was exceptionally painful…”_

_Quinlan rattles softly in reply.  He feels so conflicted—intuitively wanting to rest, remain next to Vaun, seek the other’s comfort.  Yet he’s now painfully aware that Vaun’s existence, Lar’s existence, the **whole nests’ existence** —it has all turned him into the same terrifyingly loyal soldier as his brothers.  Unable to think and unable to act on his own accord._

_His primary concern in life is and has always been the Master, something which requires his own survival, at least until such time that he gets his desired revenge.  Though somehow in the past several centuries, he’s come to worry more for the continued existence of the nest than he does about his own self-preservation—willing to use himself as cannon fodder, to sacrifice himself, in order to save just two other strigoi._

_And this…?  This cannot continue._

_“I must go,” Quinlan says, sitting up from his bed of quilts and looking around.  His clothes are set nearby, along with his boots and sword and other few possessions, and so he reaches for his shirt and trousers.  His back protests the movement, and he winces despite himself._

_“Go?” Vaun asks, looking to help.  “Do you need to feed?  I will go hunt with you—the neighboring plantation hasn’t caught onto our presence here, not yet.”_

_“No,” Quinlan says, shaking his head.  Then, repeats, “I must go.”_

_“To relieve yourself?” Vaun asks, still not understanding.  “It’s daylight—I can get the chamber pot, you don’t have to go outside.”_

_“No,” Quinlan answers, pulling on his clothes.  “I must go.  I must leave here.”_

_“What?” Vaun presses, appearing confused.  “Go where?  Why?”_

_Quinlan stands, choosing not to answer those last two questions, and reaches for his coat and boots, sword and travel bag.  Vaun stands as well, the other becoming increasingly alarmed by Quinlan’s non-answer, but Quinlan ignores him.  He shoves his feet into his boots and pulls his coat tight around his shoulders, before attempting to make it out of the basement.  He trips over a sleeping pair of strigoi on the way, the young creatures growling at him upon being woken up, but Quinlan doesn’t stop moving.  If he stops, he may reconsider this, and he can’t afford to reconsider…_

_“Brother, stop,” Vaun calls, stomping up the steps from the basement after him.  “Where are you going?”_

_“I don’t know,” Quinlan answers truthfully.  Then decides abruptly, “Back to Europe.”_

_“ **What?** ” Vaun snarls, panicked.  _

_Quinlan feels the other’s hand close over his shoulder, but he shrugs him off, pulling his hood down over his bald head.  The sunlight streaming in through the windows of the home shines through onto Quinlan’s covered, shadowed face.  Vaun hisses from behind him, remaining on the stairs in the dark, away from the light._

_“Why?” Vaun continues from behind him.  Then, unbelievably, “You can’t.  You can’t leave us.  We are your home—we are your **family.** ”  _

_“No,” Quinlan says, and so very sure, “You are my **weakness.** ”  _

_“We are your strength!” Vaun calls from behind him, but Quinlan is already striding away, toward the front, toward the door.  Which is when Vaun cries out—a long, horrible, desolate rattle.  It stops Quinlan as he opens the front door, half-in and half-out of the building, and he almost turns back.  Almost returns to his brother, his other, his partner…  Almost._

_He hears the others begin crying as well as he saddles a horse—the sound so loud he can hear their noise in the basement from where he stands in the stables.  He can even hear the distinct, sharp shrieking of the Ancients amidst the cacophony of the rest of the nest.  It makes his chest ache and his gut twist._

_The sound seems to follow him as he rides East toward the coast, even when he is miles away and far out of earshot.  He remembers their cries for years to come._

~*~*~

Quinlan awakes at dusk, his body naturally rising with the change from daylight to darkness.  He stretches lazily in the sheets and pillows, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and finds he feels much better physically now than earlier that morning.  His hip is healing, still mildly sore but definitely healing, and the much-needed rest has left him feeling refreshed and restored. 

He sits up, then cocks his head to the side until the joints in his stiff neck crack and pop.  Vaun stirs from beside him at the noise, purring in amusement, and comments, “Old man.”

“Speak for yourself,” Quinlan quips, looking down at the other.  Vaun appears relaxed, still sleepy, he one eye half-lidded.  “I am going to shower, and then talk to the Professor,” Quinlan decides.  “You rest.”

“I’ll get up once you’re finished bathing,” Vaun answers.  “I want to hear what your Sun Hunters have to say…”

“All right,” Quinlan says, standing from their nest of blankets and heading for the adjoined bathroom.  And it’s as he’s striding across the room that he realizes how quickly he’s fallen back into his old self—naturally trading jests with the other creature, preparing to discuss battle plans with the other creature, sleeping curled up next to the other creature…

The other creature—his brother, his nestmate, his _partner._   All the thoughts make him pause, turning back to look at Vaun, but Vaun has already closed his eye and snuggled back into the pillows again.  So Quinlan shakes his head, and turns around to let himself into the bathroom. 

He showers quickly, then dresses in a clean undershirt and a clean pair of pants—both black, both nearly identical to the last.  He leaves the bedroom while Vaun crawls out of their nest of pillows with a yawn and stretch, though finds himself stopped outside the closed bedroom door, simply listening and sensing and feeling.  Vaun’s gait is slower than it once was, but there is still a certain familiarity to the way he carries himself, to the sound of his feet moving his weight across the floor.  And the other’s scent hasn’t changed in the least—even now, muted as Vaun steps into the shower, washed away by the water and separated by bedroom and bathroom walls, Quinlan finds the smell astonishingly soothing.

 _I never should have left…_   It’s a distinct sort of revelation, one that brings back the same pain and anguish he’d felt on that ship back to Europe, when his soul had cried out in suffering for his squandered family.  He lays a hand on the bedroom door, listening to the sound of the shower running further in, and rattles quietly.  He’s sure Vaun can sense him still standing here—if he can still smell and hear the other, then the other can surely still smell and hear him.  And he should move away lest Vaun begin to worry.  Except he does not, not immediately, instead drags blunt fingernails down the wooden door and closes his eyes. 

_How I have **missed** you, Frater.  Where would I be now if I said stayed—where would **we** be now if I had stayed?_

Quinlan finally forces himself away, limping away while Vaun to finishes showering.  He finds Abraham in the suite’s study, the man once again bent over the Lumen in heavy concentration.  Apparently regardless of what the others had said, only Abraham and Dutch have remained in the hotel.  The Doctor and the Exterminator are nowhere in sight, nor can Quinlan smell them. 

Dutch perks up from where she’d been slumped half-asleep in the armchair in the corner, her soft eyes regarding Quinlan with interest.  “I told them he’d be up soon,” she says to Abraham, gesturing at the same time at Quinlan.  “But no, they don’t listen to me.”

Abraham looks up from the tome at her words, his eyes settling on Quinlan in surprise.  “Oh, Mr. Quinlan,” he greets.  “You’re awake.”

“I am,” he agrees.  Then, to the Dutchess, “Your friends left?”

“Fet went to go blow things up,” Dutch answers with a roll of her eyes.  “I told him he shouldn’t, that it was too dangerous.  And that you’d probably wake up soon.  But he went anyway—took Eph with him, too.”

“Mmm,” Quinlan murmurs, displeased.  But what is done is done.

“Your strigoi companion?” the Professor asks, his eyes peering over Quinlan’s shoulder, apparently looking for the other creature.

“He is awake.  He will be here after he showers,” Quinlan explains.

“Showers?” Dutch asks, confused.  “Do strigoi shower?”

“I have been alive for nearly two millennia—I would be covered in layers upon layers of grime if I did not bathe occasionally,” Quinlan answers, exasperated. 

“Well you, sure.  But him?” she counters, motioning back toward Quinlan’s room. 

“ _He_ would be covered in layers upon layers of grime if he did not bathe occasionally,” Quinlan says, parroting himself. 

“Fair enough,” Dutch replies, apparently mollified. 

“You’re feeling better?” Abraham asks, changing the subject.  Quinlan nods in affirmation, to which Abraham answers, “Good, good.  I’ve been translating more of the Lumen today, but I think we’ve inadvertently had quite a breakthrough elsewhere.”

Quinlan raises his brows, interested.  “Go on.”

“You said this morning that there was an explosion.  You believe this is what killed the Ancients?” the Professor asks.

“I _know_ this is what killed Them,” Quinlan answers.  “I was there.”

“And you’re sure that they are truly deceased?” Abraham continues.

“Yes.  Their connection with Vaun has been severed,” Quinlan tells him.  Then, realizing the humans probably don’t realize what this means, “Vaun could hear and speak with the Ancients through the connection.”

“Like the Master’s children, yes,” Abraham muses.

And Quinlan finds himself replying to that without prompting, “No, not like the Master’s children.  The Ancients do not—did not control him.”

“I heard my name,” Vaun says, appearing as if on cue.  Quinlan turns toward his voice, finds the other just behind him.  He’s showered and dressed now—clothed in the same grungy tactical pants as the night before, though he’s traded in the black shirt and combat vest for one of Quinlan’s clean hooded sweatshirts.  The garment is too large for him—Quinlan is taller with broader shoulders than his brother—and it makes him look so very small. 

“Mmm,” Quinlan murmurs, rattling out a greeting.  Vaun hasn’t put a shirt on under the sweatshirt, and the delicate line of the other’s collarbone is revealed by its too large, open neck.  The sight makes that protective instinct twist hard inside Quinlan’s chest.  Quinlan admits, “We were discussing you and the Ancients.”

“So Setrakian says you’re the goon who kidnapped him,” Dutch says, her tone somewhere between interested and offended. 

Vaun chuffs at that, and answers, “Yes, we’ve met.”

“Quite violently,” Abraham states.  Vaun shrugs, unperturbed and unapologetic.  Abraham breezes past this, and continues on with his previous questioning, now directed at Vaun, “You are sure the Ancients are dead?”

Quinlan watches as Vaun visibly deflates, and he trills softly at the sight, trying to comfort and reassure _.  You’re not alone, brother, I am here._   Vaun answers after a minute, saying, “Yes.  Very sure, without a doubt.”

When Quinlan turns back to Abraham, the man is looking at them both with an odd expression.  It takes Quinlan a moment to recognize—but he then realizes that the Professor has noticed Vaun’s emotion to his question, noticed Quinlan’s response to that emotion, and is now scrutinizing them both.  _Intellectual human_ , Quinlan thinks.  _Student of strigoi instinct and behavior…_  

“Why is this important?” Vaun asks, stepping forward to stand beside Quinlan.  He sounds nervous for some reason, and Quinlan eyeballs him from the side, trying to read him.  Vaun continues, “They were not the problem—They were not the enemy.  I spent centuries weakening the Master with Their power at my back.  This is not a step forward, this is a step back.”

“Perhaps,” Abraham says.  “Or perhaps we have made an inadvertent step forward without realizing it.”

“How?” Quinlan asks, while he can feel Vaun glowering from next to him.  “Vaun is right, They were a powerful force in Their time.”

“They still are—still were a powerful force,” Vaun snarls at him, rattling.  Dutch sits back in her chair, obviously anxious over Vaun’s tone.  Quinlan supposes he shouldn’t be surprised—Vaun is new here, the wildcard in their small group.  The humans don’t know what to expect from him. 

“However, They were part of the Seven First Strix, just like the Master,” Abraham says.  “And if those three Ancients can be killed by a bomb, then perhaps a bomb will also be able to kill the Master.  Perhaps the ‘face of God’ is referring to a fiery explosion.”

Vaun clearly bristles at this.  “No,” he growls, simple and with no further explanation.

Except this makes _perfect_ sense to Quinlan.  “I believe he may be right,” Quinlan tells Vaun, staring down his other’s dark glare.  “That bomb _did_ kill the Three.  Why would a similar WMD not kill the Master?”

“And you expect He will simply stand there and allow you to detonate a bomb?” Vaun snaps.  “Foolish…”

Quinlan finds himself growling at that.  “I am not foolish,” he returns.  “I would of course have to restrain the Master, in a way.  Distract Him, fight Him to keep His attention—while someone else detonates the weapon on us.”

“This could work,” Abraham muses, his eyes dropping to the tome, obviously deep in thought.

Meanwhile, Vaun begins laughing.  “You are _mad_ ,” he snarls. 

“How exactly am I mad?” Quinlan spits.  “It worked for your Creator.  A distraction of the Master’s minions, and They stayed and allowed Their deaths.”

The noise Vaun makes at that is violent, and causes Dutch to stand in distress.  “You assume They didn’t know?” Vaun asks.  “They knew there was a bomb.  They knew of Their impending deaths.  Which is why They sent me to follow you…”

“ _What?_ ” Quinlan snarls, turning to the Professor at this information.  Though Abraham is once again looking at them with _that_ expression, analyzing and evaluating— _student of strigoi instinct and behavior…_

“They sent me,” Vaun snaps.  “They said that you would need me in the months to come.  There is a lot They never told you, things that I know.  And They were obviously right—you’re clearly lost out here on your own…”

And it’s an instinctual reflex to his lack of respect, to his backtalk and insolence—Quinlan strikes him across the face with the back of his hand, watching with mixed emotion as the other reels backward with the force of it.  Vaun catches himself on the doorframe, growling at Quinlan over having been hit, and rights himself defiantly, unflinchingly meeting Quinlan’s stern gaze.  Quinlan rumbles at the other’s attitude, before turning back to look at the humans. 

Dutch appears shocked, her bright eyes wide, while Abraham is still watching him with that studious look.  “It seems as if you’ve know each other for quite a bit longer than just these past few weeks,” Abraham observes.  Quinlan huffs at him, while Vaun laughs.

“Something like that,” Vaun says.  “A few weeks, a few centuries…”

Quinlan rolls his eyes, and looks back to his other.  Vaun glares at him through his one squinted eye.  Quinlan presses on, “I thought you were loyal to me—that we were loyal to each other.  Yet you say you held things back from me… a lot of things?”

“My loyalty was to Them first, then to you.  You had to have known that,” Vaun says, but then shakes his head.  “No, I let myself forget sometimes that you’re indeed part human—but then your ego can be _astounding_.”

And Quinlan itches to smack him again over that comment, except Dutch pipes up uncertainly.  “Guys, guys,” she says, voice timid.  “Can we, like, try to get along?  I mean, things are shitty enough right now without all the yelling and… and hitting.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Vaun says, hand coming up to rub at his cheek.  “Maybe, if this one can listen to me…”

Quinlan ignores Vaun’s last remark, and asks instead, “If you were loyal first to Them, then to me… and now They are gone.  Does that mean you are now loyal first to me?”

Vaun’s expression relaxes into a sideways grin, and he purrs softly, low, the noise affectionate and reassuring.  “Yes,” he answers, “so long as _you_ are also loyal first to me.”  Quinlan purrs in return, nodding, and so Vaun adds, “Which means you must _listen_.”

Abraham interrupts, “Mr. Vaun, if you know information that is helpful, please share.”

Vaun nods, then says, gesturing to Quinlan, “He already knows what needs to be done.  He’s just not _thinking_.”

And Quinlan can remember those same words from weeks prior…  _You already know everything you need to know…  You’re just not **thinking.**_ He sighs, and says, “Perhaps.  Perhaps I am not thinking, or perhaps I do not know quite as much as you claim.  But I do not see why an explosion would not be His undoing.”

“It would be, but it would also be yours,” Vaun says.

Quinlan rolls his eyes, and begins, “You know the prophecy…”

“No, you _misunderstand_ the prophecy,” Vaun tells him.  “It only predicts that you’ll be His undoing—the idea that He will be yours, that your lifeblood is somehow connected to him…  That was propagated by Him to keep you at bay.”

Quinlan takes a deep breath, trying to control himself, and asks, “Exactly how long have you known this?”

“From the beginning,” Vaun answers, and Quinlan clenches his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, to keep himself from lashing out.  “They didn’t want you to know…”

“They wished to keep me at bay as well?” Quinlan interrupts, furious. 

“They didn’t want you to do anything rash,” Vaun clarifies.  Then adds with a slight smirk, “They were oddly fond of you, even though you weren’t Theirs, even though you were always questioning Them.  They wanted you alive.  _I_ wanted you alive.”

Quinlan rattles, not sure what to do with that information, though his anger still burns hot. 

“You trust what this… creature has to say?” Abraham puts in.

Quinlan simply nods, because yes, of course he does.  Vaun speaks up, sounding offended, “I would never outright lie to my brother.”

“Your… your _brother_?” Dutch asks, sounding shocked and confused.  Quinlan shakes his head, annoyed.  He doesn’t have time for their silly questions.

“Never _outright_ lie…  Just lie by omission,” Quinlan snaps, rounding on Vaun once again.  Vaun squints his one eye, glaring, but doesn’t try to argue.  So Quinlan cries, “Then what?!  What am I supposed to do?  If you have all the answers, then _tell me_.”

“You already know,” Vaun repeats, causing Quinlan to growl threateningly.  But Vaun continues, un-cowed, “You knew five-hundred years ago, though it was _us_ who didn’t listen then.”

And suddenly with that— _five-hundred years, **us** who didn’t listen_ —Quinlan understands.  And Vaun obviously realizes it, judging by the smirk that spreads across the other’s face.

“All we need is a big box, and a lot of silver,” Vaun finishes.

Quinlan nods in reply, a slow smile spreading across his face as well. 

~*~*~

_They find It just outside of Giza in the beginning of the 17 th century.  It’s the same Ancient they had tracked to Cairo, the same Ancient they had found and had subsequently escaped from that tomb.  The same Ancient that has allied with and been aiding the Master for the past century._

_There are a lot of differing opinions on how to handle the situation.  They’d approached the tomb in Cairo with lit torches, ready to burn the Creature alive…  Though Quinlan questions this plan after what happens and what they see inside that tomb._

_“It moved so quickly—if Its reaction to confrontation is to flee, we will never get close enough to It to light It aflame, much less **keep** It aflame,” Quinlan says, standing guard inside the tunnels of their tomb-nest.  Vaun stands beside him, musket slung over his shoulder, idly tracing the ancient paintings on the crypt wall.  _

_“We need to set some sort of trap,” Vaun muses.  “You are right, we will never catch It, so we must make It come to us.”_

_“Still, we can recover from fire if it is extinguished quickly enough,” Quinlan points out.  “This is not going to work.  We need another plan altogether.”_

_“It will work,” Vaun insists.  “We just need a trap.”_

_And it’s as Quinlan watches his other’s gloved finger trailing along a stylized, painted sarcophagus that it comes to him.  “That’s it,” Quinlan says with excitement, motioning to Vaun._

_“Hmm?” Vaun rattles, turning away from his drawings._

_“That,” Quinlan answers, pointing to the specific painting.  “A sarcophagus—there is our trap.  We put It away in a pyramid tomb, in a silver coffin, forever forgotten.”_

_Vaun scoffs at him.  “You expect It to simply climb in the coffin for you, thank you for your time while It’s at it?” Vaun quips, causing Quinlan to snarl quietly._

_“And you are expecting It to stand still while you set It afire?” Quinlan shoots back.  “It will not be a simple task, but luring It and locking It into a coffin will be easier than the alternative.”_

_Vaun rattles, unhappy.  “Thieves come into these tombs all the time,” Vaun remarks.  “Do you really think a greedy human will leave a silver-coated coffin alone?”_

_And this?  Well, this is a good point.  But…  “Then we trap It in Its coffin, and sink It,” Quinlan decides.  “We can find a human to sail us into the Mediterranean, and then we drop It into the middle of the sea.”_

_Vaun laughs at that, shaking his head.  “At least you amuse me, brother,” he says.  Then, “ **They** say no silver coffins, and no water.”_

_“And we must always obey Them,” Quinlan retorts sardonically, rolling his eyes.  “This is becoming tiresome.”_

_“I’m sorry you find us tiresome,” Vaun says, but it’s said with the same sarcastic undertone as Quinlan’s own statement.  Quinlan huffs at him, rattling.  Vaun continues, “We lay a trap, and then burn It.”_

_“This is not going to work,” Quinlan tells him, irritated.  “But if this is what They want, then I suppose the discussion is over.”_

_“You suppose correctly,” Vaun answers, going back to tracing the ancient tracings._

_Of course, two weeks later and Quinlan finds himself streaking after the burning Ancient across the desert sands, flaming torch in hand.  But the Ancient is quick even while set ablaze, and Its rapid movement is only serving to put out the fire Quinlan has managed to set in the first place._

_Gunfire sounds from behind him, musket rounds firing into the Creature, but it’s already too late.  Quinlan is fast, very fast, but like most strigoi his speed is in bursts.  He and his brothers are sprinters, not marathon runners.  The Original Strix, however, seem to make no distinction between short and long distances—and while Quinlan is forced to slow down, the Ancient continues to fly off across the sands, Its shrieks fading into the vastness of the desert._

_There has only been one significant time in Quinlan’s very long life that he’s felt inadequate—the years spent with his wife, wishing he could be more for her, could be a **man** for her…  And then ultimately, unable to protect her in the end.  But at that moment, being physically driven to stop and allow the enemy to escape once again, the muscles in his legs burning and his lungs desperately sucking in the dry desert air—it’s as though his body has betrayed him.  And he feels so incredibly, excruciatingly **inadequate**._

_He curses to himself, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees.  He can hear more muskets firing from behind him, and he growls with annoyance at the sound.  The Ancient is much too far away now to be hit—they’re just wasting ammo._

_“Stop firing, stop firing!” comes Vaun’s voice, and Quinlan breathes out a quiet sigh.  At least someone here has a marginal amount of sense…_

_He finds himself falling back to sit on his rump, not caring about the danger in his moment of exhaustion.  The Creature is injured and has fled, and they’ve killed all of Its progeny—for the moment, the danger is slim.  He hears boots trudging through the sand behind him, and can smell Vaun’s familiar scent coming toward him._

_Vaun drops his musket in the sand next to Quinlan, then squats down beside him, a gloved hand coming to rest on his back.  “Are you alright, **Vinr**?” Vaun asks, trilling softly at the end of the question.  “I do not think I have ever seen one of us sprint so fast and so far.”_

_“I am not one of you—not truly,” Quinlan says, feeling so inept.  “Though I am afraid even with the advantages of my form, I have failed us today.  I apologize.”_

_“You are Born, **not** one of the Seven,” Vaun points out, hand gently squeezing Quinlan’s shoulder.  “Do not blame yourself.  It was a poorly executed plan on all our parts.”_

_“It was simply a poor plan,” Quinlan remarks, scowling._

_“Mmm,” Vaun murmurs.  Then, offering a hand down to help Quinlan to his feet, “Perhaps you are right.”_

**_I know I am right_ ** _, Quinlan thinks, accepting Vaun’s help and climbing back to his feet.  He looks off into the distance, over the dunes, where the Ancient had fled.  The winds have churned through in Its wake, and there are no signs anything had even been through the night-blue sands._

_“Come,” Vaun says.  “It will be back eventually.  Maybe not this year… Ha, maybe not even this century.  But They say It has lived here Its entire life.  It will be back—we will finish this then.”_

_“Indeed,” Quinlan says, though he hates unfinished business.  His centuries-long, nay **millennia** -long fight against the Master seems to corrode away his patience, even his sanity at times.  The last thing he wants is yet another Ancient’s death warrant hanging over his head.  _

_Vaun looks back at him, the other’s red eyes appearing almost black in the dark of the night.  “We will, **Vinr** ,” he says, seeming to recognize Quinlan’s troubled thoughts.  How the other reads him sometimes, Quinlan does not know—it’s almost disconcerting.  Vaun assures him one last time…_

_“Do not fret, **we will**.”_

~*~*~

Quinlan had brought few material possessions with him upon flying back to the States, only what he could carry on himself and in one duffel bag.  Just his weapons, a few changes of clothes, and some sentimental belongings—the locket engraved with his wife’s likeness, a couple of books, and a very, very old chess set.  As a consequence, his bedroom at the hotel is impersonal, sparsely decorated, seemingly all cream-colored carpet and whitewashed walls. 

It’s late at night when they both retire back to his room, the humans having left them to go to sleep.  Quinlan seats himself on the edge of the bed, watching as Vaun takes a moment to look around.  They’d simply fallen onto the floor and into sleep the morning prior, Vaun apparently having been too tired to investigate his new nest, though he seems to be rectifying this oversight now. 

Quinlan watches as he pauses by the clean clothes folded on top of the dresser, smoothing a hand over the soft shirt, the heavy vest, the black denim pants.  Vaun pauses at the next stack of clothes—messily folded, torn, still stained with his white blood—the clothes he’d worn during his misguided bait-and-switch attempt on the Master.  Vaun looks at Quinlan with a frown, but Quinlan just shrugs back with a soft rattle.

Vaun moves on from the dresser, traipsing over to the small table in the corner.  Quinlan has set his few books down on the tabletop, and Vaun picks up the one on top, looking it over with a smirk.  “ _The Prince?_ ” Vaun asks, raising a brow.  “Machiavelli?  Really?”

Quinlan finds himself grinning, “I enjoy his perspective.  I find it still relevant, even now.”

Vaun shrugs, setting it back down on the table.  He picks up the next, _The Iliad and The Odyssey_ —the cover well-worn, the pages thin and yellowing.  And then the next, _The Divine Comedy_ —also read thoroughly and repeatedly, the cover frayed at the edges.  Vaun smiles, setting them back down, and comments, “At least some things stay the same.”

Quinlan chuckles, and murmurs, “Indeed.”

Vaun wanders away from the books and to the foot of the bed, to where Quinlan had discarded his dirty clothes from the previous night.  He shuffles through them, pulling the trousers out and holding them up for investigation.  The black denim is practically grey with filth, and upon further examination, Quinlan can see a few tears in the material.  However, he knows this is not what Vaun is looking for…

Vaun finds it on the second pocket he tries, pulling out the golden memento with gentle hands.  “You still have it,” Vaun notes, gently raking his long thumbnail down the front of the image. 

And Quinlan would lash out at having this personal, special remembrance touched by another, at least if it were anyone else.  But Vaun is not unaware of this part of Quinlan’s past, nor is this the first time he’s held the token in his hand.  Quinlan nods, and answers, “I do not plan on parting with it.”

“Not intentionally, I know,” Vaun says, tenderly putting the locket back into Quinlan’s trouser pocket.  “But you came close a few times that I know of.  Life is uncertain.”

“True enough,” Quinlan says, watching as Vaun lays his trousers back on the bed and moves away.  The creature ambles over to the mini-fridge next, the appliance once filled with tiny bottles of human alcohol that Quinlan had emptied down the bathroom sink.  Now it is now filled with blood bags pilfered from the closest blood bank, Quinlan’s own private source of sustenance.  Vaun pauses, obviously smelling the blood, his hand on the top of the fridge.  “Take what you need, if you are hungry,” Quinlan offers.

“Mmm, no, I’m still quite sated.  But thank you,” Vaun answers.  He scratches his nails across the appliance as he walks away, the sound loud and grating.  He leaves groves on the linoleum in his wake, claw marks, effectively marking his territory.  And Quinlan’s first instinct is to be affronted, but at the same time he knows his marks are all over the rooms—he’s been sleeping here and feeding here and relieving himself here for weeks now. 

If Vaun feels the need to mark the room, so be it.  This is still _Quinlan’s_ nest.   

“Is this…?” Vaun asks, and Quinlan looks over to find him picking up the box holding the old chess set.  Quinlan nods before Vaun even finishes the question, a nostalgic grin creeping across his face.  Still, Vaun continues, “Is this the same set we used to play on?  The case looks identical.”

“It is,” Quinlan answers.  “I have parted with most of my older, unneeded possessions over the years, though there have been some with more… personal value than expected.”

Vaun smiles softly, purring, and brings the chess set over to Quinlan.  “Play?” Vaun requests.  “For old-time’s sake?”

“Mmm, _licuit_ ,” Quinlan replies, sliding off the bed and onto the floor.  Vaun settles down in the floor across from him, pulling the board and the chess pieces out of the case.  The scene is so very reminiscent of times past, different countries and different floors and different Sun Hunters slumbering nearby, but otherwise _the same_.  Quinlan sets up his white pieces, the color he always plays, while Vaun sets up the black.  “You can move first,” Quinlan offers.

Vaun gives him a dubious look, as though suspecting an ulterior motive, though he eventually relents and moves one of his pawns. 

They play in silence initially, watching as Vaun executes his moves with intelligence and cunning, still very much present, skilled, and _himself._   “I was worried,” Quinlan speaks up after some time, causing Vaun to look up from the board and meet Quinlan’s gaze.  “When we escaped the explosion, and I realized the Ancients were deceased…  And I saw you screaming…”

“I’m sorry,” Vaun says, picking up a rook and running one long nail gently down its side.  “I was overwhelmed that moment when the Connection was first severed.  I don’t remember screaming.”

“It is quite alright,” Quinlan assures him.  “But I did not know whether you would be, well… Whether you would be there still.  Whether you were still _Vaun_ , or were only a husk.”

Vaun is silent for a moment, eventually taking one of Quinlan’s pawns with his rook.  Then, he admits, “I trusted Them that I wouldn’t—that I wouldn’t lose myself once They were gone—since They told me to leave.  I mean, why would They tell me to leave if I wouldn’t be of any use to you once They were gone?  But…”

The other trails off with rattle, and Quinlan nods, finishing for him, “We’ve always been told that once the Connection was severed, the children would become insentient.”

“Yes,” Vaun says.  “And that is something I don’t know.  I can’t tell you if I’m a special case—or if the Other Six’s children are different in this aspect.  But I’d recommend we be prepared for the worst…”

“Indeed,” Quinlan replies, not really wanting to think about this.  Defeating the Master Himself, only to have His thousands upon thousands of minions rise up, aware and enraged, looking for revenge…  This is not a pleasant notion. 

“Though it might not be as devastating a situation as imagined,” Vaun puts in, watching as Quinlan quickly and decisively moves his bishop across the board.  “I’m… not myself.  If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be sitting in that rubble.”  Quinlan looks up and meets his gaze, and the other’s voice lowers, tone quiet and reserved as he admits, “I feel such an emptiness, _Vinr_.  Everything is so silent.  My Creator is gone, my other brothers are gone—I _ache_.  You’re _all_ I have left.”

Quinlan rattles gently.  “I am sorry,” he says, quiet, knowing that he’s not just apologizing for Vaun’s most recent loss.  “I am so sorry.  I am here now.”

“I know,” Vaun answers, his fingers playing over a pawn.  He continues, “Your smell is strong here—you’ve been nesting in this room for a while.  It’s… comforting.”

 _You smell has always grounded me as well,_ Quinlan thinks.  _Funny how in so many ways we are the **same sides** of two different coins.  _ “The first time I saw you, _smelled_ you underground tunnel with the Three—or reunited with you, I suppose…  Every feeling I had ever developed came flooding back to me,” he says.  “And then later, when I saw you were injured so severely—“ he pauses, having to laugh at his own stupid biological drives, “—I became driven, _dominant._ My need to protect you was overpowering.”

“I could tell,” Vaun says, a wry grin spreading across his face.  “You were acting like a fool.”

Quinlan growls quietly, and comments, “I seem to be capable of great acts of idiocy when I am around you and your kind…”

Vaun squints his one eye, chuffing.  “Blame us all you want,” Vaun says, his threatening tone at odds with his words.  “But you’re quite capable of idiocy all on your own—that is your human nature, not us.”

“I threw myself in front of a cannon.  I could have died,” Quinlan says, irritated.  “All because of this need.  This… instinctual urge.  I do not know how else to explain it.”

“You don’t need to explain it—don’t you think I already know?” Vaun asks, huffing.  “And is that…?  Do you know how many times I threw myself in front of a cannon for you?  Metaphorically speaking, at least…  More times than I can count.”

Quinlan growls, low, but relents, “Perhaps.”

“We are stronger together than apart.  If I can suffer pain and injury in order to keep you on your feet, I’ll do so—and I’ll do so gladly,” Vaun says.  “As you have done for us…  Even if you were downed, you had brothers behind you to carry on.  To finish the kill and protect you and get you back to the nest.”

Quinlan grunts, unhappy.  “It is only us now,” he points out.  “Are _we_ stronger together?  Or are we both going to follow each other over the edge of a cliff?”

“If I can break your fall, I’ll jump the cliff with you,” Vaun counters easily, moving his pawn idly.  “But I don’t like this line of questioning…  Remember what I said.  I _will_ come for you if you leave.”

“I am not leaving,” Quinlan grates out, frustrated.  “I…”

“Excuse me for taking no comfort in those words, not after what I’ve been through.  After what you put me through,” Vaun interrupts.  “You don’t understand how I hurt for you.  I _grieved—_ as if I’d lost you in battle _._ I knew rationally that I had not, but…”  He pauses, rattling in dark amusement.  “You want to talk to me about strig instinct?  Nestmates don’t just walk off and leave—even once I’d took back command, I still instinctively looked for your leadership.  I looked for _you_.  Lar said I _still_ searched for you in my sleep, hundreds of years after.”

Quinlan closes his eyes, unable to look at Vaun as the other confesses such personal pain and suffering.  “I have not slept as well as yesterday, with you here beside me, in hundreds of years,” Quinlan admits quietly.

“I still don’t know why you ran,” Vaun says, sounding weary.  “You’re cursed to crave companionship from both sides—human and strigoi alike.  Neither is meant to be alone.”

“I was…” _afraid of and appalled at myself._   Quinlan huffs, and finally attempts to explain, “I had spent much of my life trying to be human.  But then…”

“But you’re not,” Vaun interrupts, sounding almost perplexed.  His tone makes Quinlan grin despite himself.  “You’re not human.”

“I realize,” Quinlan answers.  “But this was something I had to grow to accept.”

Vaun still seems utterly confused by this, but he simply shrugs his shoulders and leaves it be.  He’s also apparently finished with the game now, forgotten amidst their discussion—Quinlan watches as the other creature takes a knight in hand and drags it across the board, knocking down several other pieces in its wake.  Quinlan growls in mock-offense, and Vaun raises a brow, before knocking one more piece down out of spite. 

 ** _Gods_** _, I have missed you_ , Quinlan thinks, then shoves the entire board out from in between them.  He crawls into the space left behind, Vaun’s arms automatically reaching for him, and presses his forehead to the other’s with a sigh.  Vaun trills back happily, laying his hands to rest on Quinlan’s shoulders, and rearranges himself accordingly, one leg tucked underneath himself and the other splayed out to Quinlan’s side. 

“ _Ég hef saknað þín svo mikið,_ ” Vaun murmurs, nuzzling against Quinlan until they are pressed cheek to cheek.  **I have missed you so much.**

“You voice my thoughts,” Quinlan tells him, closing his eyes.

“ _Vinr_ ,” Vaun purrs softly, squeezing Quinlan’s shoulders.  “Do not leave me again.  _É_ _g elska þig_.“

Quinlan’s heart swells with those words, and he finds himself digging his nails into Vaun’s chest, trilling lovingly.  “ _Te amo, frater_ …  Rest easy, I am here.”

“ _Te amo_.”


	5. Writer's Edit

I haven’t finished a long ( or long-ish ) fic in quite some time, and so I wanted to kinda go over my writing process and look at what I felt I’d done right and what could have been improved upon.  I welcome any kind of constructive criticism from commenters: things you specifically enjoyed and things you felt could have been better.  And please don’t feel like you have to read this rambling commentary in order to leave come critique; but I enjoy seeing writers’ edits and trains of thought, so I figured I’d share mine.  Enjoy!

 

First, a few general observations and thoughts…

This whole fic really started because when Vaun died and Quinlan arrived on the scene, I just felt like there was such a missed opportunity.  ( And yes, I’ve obviously gotten into this show a little late, oops ) But even if they’d stuck with the book canon, Vaun still would’ve gotten some more good airtime before he got wasted with the Ancients, damn! Lol  But anyway, something I enjoy about the tv-show Sun Hunters is their obvious otherworldliness, the fact that they are _not_ human, yet still seem to have a human sentience that most of the Master’s strigoi do not.  And further exploring that mix of instinctual strigoi behavior verses human consciousness was just really a lot of fun…  With Vaun and Quinlan both.

I was expecting Quinlan to be difficult to write, but for the most part he flowed easily.  There were some moments (especially in later flashbacks / reunion with Vaun ) that I stopped and thought, ‘wait, is this out of character?’  But then, I personally felt that the behavior—the compliance, overt affection, shows of weakness—these were ‘normal’ behaviors to display with nestmates.  Or at least, other high-ranking nestmates for a dominant like Quinlan.  So, it’s back to the whole ‘instinct vs conscious thought’ thing.  In fact, the whole point was that Vaun and the rest of the nest brought of the instinctual and animalistic side in Quinlan.  Made him instinctively look for and want the same things that the rest did—to not be alone, to be accepted, to be able to have that creature comfort…  And eventually, to exert his dominance over the others—though he’s always been kinda a ‘my way or the highway’ guy even in canon, lol.  But the rest of it we don’t really see in the canon—but it’s sort of my take on a ‘different situation=different Quinlan”.  You can like it or call it OOC, it’s up to you.

Vaun, however, I struggled with.  Especially his dialogue.  But then, have you heard his dialogue in the show?  The guy switches from formal to colloquial speech every fucking scene, lol!  He goes from ‘ _Sometimes great enemies become allies, so they can fight a common foe’_ to ‘ _Ok, shut up, let’s go._ ”  I honestly don’t know if this is lazy writing, or if they were trying to kinda show he was both ancient and modernized.  Who knows?  Anyway, I assumed it was the latter and did the best I could, trying to keep him more formal in flashbacks and more modern in present day.  It was still… ugh.  Otherwise, I really enjoyed being able to flesh him out with my own ideas and historical research.  There’s no info on him in the canon—probably since he was supposed to be Quinlan, then was promptly dropped like a hot potato—but that pretty much left an open slate for me to come in and do whatever the hell I wanted.  Yay!  Fun times.  And I obviously love putting my beloved characters through much pain and anguish—I realize the ‘crazy powerful sun lights’ was a stretch, but it worked for the entire rest of the plot.  So I just went with it.  Sorry Vaun, at least you lived! Lol

 

Anyway, some specifics…

> He finds them in the room they obviously use for nesting and sleeping, the area dark and open, its contents empty save for piles of pillows and blankets…

I like to think that they all normally sleep on the floor—just like you see all the Master’s strigoi doing.  But this is one of those things that is like instinctually programed, which is why here when Quinlan walks into the room that the others sleep in there are no beds, not even any cots or anything.  And later, after they’ve both been injured in that explosion, they both end up lying down on the floor and falling asleep.  I mean, they’re in the hotel at that point—there are plenty of beds available.  But Quinlan doesn’t try to pull Vaun onto the couch with himself, he rolls off and onto the floor.  And Vaun doesn’t get into Quinlan’s bed later, he pulls all the sheets and shit on the floor for them to sleep.  Because that is normal, and Quinlan very quickly falls back into those old animalistic habits as soon as he’s around Vaun again. 

> “I don’t need your lecture, Born,” Vaun growls, and the fact the he calls him Born—not friend, brother, nestmate—hurts more than it should.  “I got three—five—of my siblings killed.  I know my mistakes.”

As shown in later flashbacks, once Quinlan has been in the nest for some time, he and Vaun only really called each other by these affectionate and familial ‘pet names’, so to speak.  I would assume this is common with the entire nest—they would not use anyone’s actual name unless having to specify one brother/sister in particular, or as they do from time to time in this fic, in moments of panic.  So the fact that Vaun calls him ‘Born’ here in this scene—in fact, Lar also calls him by his given name ‘Quintus’ later on, same scene—this is all kinda a Big Fucking Deal.  

> He feels Vaun’s presence next to him suddenly, and looks over to find the creature kneeling down in the dirt.  Vaun rattles mournfully, laying a hand in the center of the dead’s chest, and Quinlan watches, not quite believing what he’s seeing.

While mourning the dead is of course a very human behavior, it is not a behavior restricted purely to humankind.  There are many animals that also mourn their dead—elephants, several species of monkeys, and several species of birds, just to name a few.  Birds that mate for life are especially prone to grieving the loss of their mate.  So I felt like losing a nestmate would be a very painful experience to these strigoi on a visceral level—like losing part of the pack, the family.  Vaun speaks to Quinlan towards the end about how ‘losing him’ had affected him so profoundly, and Quinlan had only walked out of the nest.  Imagine if he’d fucking died… 

> “They are not like the Master, and we are not like the Master’s minions,” Vaun speaks up needlessly.  This is something Quinlan has already figured out, though the exact hows and whys he’s still discovering.  Vaun continues, “We are not simple minions.  We are not Their pawns.  We are Their children, They chose us for this gift.  We are special to Them.”

Long bit of blabbering here…  I did my best to explain how the connection between the Ancients and their children worked, but obviously skewed through Vaun’s eyes.  Vaun loves his Creator, and as stated, feels that the power and immortality bestowed upon him is a gift, not a curse.  And though it goes against canon somewhat, I kinda viewed the three Ancients here as the ‘anti-heroes’, so to speak…  Staying in line with the canon, They don’t personally go out and start trying to take down the Master.  But They’re like, ‘Hey, this Seventh guy is a real dick.  Let’s make His life a living hell by sending all Our progeny to bother Him all the fucking time.’ 

So They of course pick the best warriors They can find to infect—as Quinlan figures out later, They infected Vaun because he was a Viking and a loyal, exceptional warrior—and then They feed them a bunch of bullshit about how they’re chosen for this gift and the fight against evil and blah blah blah.  Is it all bullshit?  I mean, no, not really.  But Vaun is really just spouting back at Quinlan here what he’s been told by his Creator. 

Though that statement that the Ancients do not physically control them or take their bodies is true.  Vaun and the others can hear the Ancients, but They also do not _need_ to control Their children.  Vaun is not unique in his loyalty and love for his Creator—and anyway, I feel like if any of the strigoi for some reason did decide to disobey and leave the nest, their Creator would just end them directly.  I feel like the only real reason They didn’t end Quinlan when he left was because of the prophecy.  Kinda stupid to kill the key to your enemy’s demise, right?  Lol

> Neither of the two strigoi reply with words.  They only reply with strigoi vocalizations, by rattling and purring and huffing.  It’s been some time since Quinlan has had to communicate this way, and he’s not quite sure what they mean by their sounds.  However, neither of them seem combative or aggressive, so he’s hopeful. 

My own personal canon—all the rattling and purring and shit means something.  Even if it’s just like, ‘hey there, dude, I’m strig like you!—it still means something.  But later on, I hope a lot of the purring and trilling came off as what it was supposed to be: shows of emotion, whether that be affection or anger or anxiety or whatever it was.  They can say a lot to each other without any words.

> “There are ten, including the Ancients,” Vaun answers.  “We have only seven Sun Hunters.  Tonight I have two children guarding the entrance, while my three competent siblings are out hunting because we unfortunately still to feed during this fucking mess…”  He stops to hum in irritation before finishing.  “Meanwhile, Lar sits down here and babysits me instead of doing something useful.”
> 
> Lar rattles menacingly at that statement, though Vaun pays him no mind.  And Quinlan…  He doesn’t know how to reply, what to say or how to respond.  But his heart hurts, and his chest is tight and his stomach knotted.  It’s a feeling he used to know well… instinct.  An overwhelming need to care for, to protect, and to defend his and his own.

Grammar, typo error in the first paragraph… Oops!  Anyway, other than that error, I was pleased with this little part here.  We get a good look at Vaun and Lar’s relationship in this scene—something that is still strong and special, even if Quinlan sorta blew it out of the water when he arrived lol.  Poor Lar.  I like their dynamic here, though—Lar very protective of an injured Vaun, while Vaun is still trying to exert some level of dominance.  But Lar defers easily, and Vaun _knows_ he will…  When Lar rattles at him ( totally backtalking him ) Vaun doesn’t care, because he knows Lar is just Lar.  Not a threat.  Sound familiar?  ( Vaun gets away with murder around Quinlan once Quinlan becomes the dom, yet Quinlan lets him because…  It’s Vaun, they have a ‘unique bond’ )

Also…  This part is the first in-depth view of Quinlan feeling his instinctual drives toward the nest.  Was fun to write.

> So the good Doctor undressed him…  This is either the incredibly fortunate choice of human to have seen him, or the incredibly unfortunate choice.  He looks around again, almost expecting to see the man nearby, but only the Professor sits in the room.  He sighs, and says, “That is unnecessary.  I have others.  Where are my weapons?”

I feel like this kind of contradicts with the next flashback.  ‘Quinlan is not a shy man…’  He comes off as a bit shy here, upset that the humans had undressed him.  As I writer trying to justify this, though, I figured it was less the fact that he’d been nude in front of them, and more the fact that they’d undressed him while he was unconscious without his consent.  He’d been with the Ancients’ nest from the late 1300’s to the early 1800’s, then I imagine mostly traveled alone after that.  So, he hadn’t had anyone beside the nest undress him to treat an injury since the 1300’s.  And I feel like this wasn’t a common occurrence anyway, he’s way too skilled himself and when backed up by a group of capable strig warriors?  Yeah, I don’t think he experienced _too_ many serious injuries while he was with them.  But when he did, they also were his _brothers_ , his _nestmates_ —not humans.  It’s innately different being unconscious and naked around his brothers… at least once he’s comfortable and knows the others accept the differences in his body.  More next flashback lol.

> Quinlan is Born, part strigoi and part human, and his anatomy reflects this mix accordingly.  His blood may be white, but it is clean, free of the worm parasites that plague the other strigoi in the nest.  His heart still beats, pumping the blood through his body, while the movement of the worms slowly circulate the blood through the other strigoi’s bodies.  His stinger and its working appendage are smaller than the other strigoi’s, making room for the human lungs that still work in his chest, for his kidneys and liver, for his bladder and intestines…

I work in medicine, so for totally selfish reasons it was fun to sort of make up my own anatomical personal canon for Quinlan.  I haven’t read the entirety of the books or comics, so I don’t know if any of this is contradicted outside of the show…  But I liked to sort of think of him as having a human body, but with the proboscis and its appendage instead of an upper GI tract.  And then, of course, the supernatural sense of smell, hearing, nighttime sight, etc…  The strigoi strengths.  Fun stuff.

> “You have that smell—like human men and male animals.  Virile,” Vaun says, gesturing idly.  “You’re obviously still intact.”
> 
> “Virile?” he asks, sneering.  “I’m quite the opposite, I assure you.  Quite sterile.  In more ways than one…”
> 
> He’s ashamed by his outburst of a revelation immediately, unsure of what had caused him to disclose such a thing.  Except Vaun just shrugs, completely unfazed, and says, “No more so than us.  I’m rather sure.”

A couple of things happening here in this flashback.  First, I got to write about Quinlan’s junk, yay! Lol.  No, but really…  One, that acceptance that Quinlan had been unconsciously looking for…  Vaun basically telling him, ‘Yeah, you smell like testosterone, we all knew you had a pair the minute you walked on the scene, no one cares.  Stop acting like an idiot.’  But also, that comment from Quinlan—‘Quite sterile, in more ways than one.’  That was supposed to be a reference to the fact that not only was he physically sterile, couldn’t father children, but that he also had little to no desire for sex.  Which was why this fic was tagged ‘asexually spectrum’—I wasn’t trying to be totally out of touch and claim Vaun was asexual just because he didn’t have genitalia.  That was actually a reference to this au’s Quinlan.  And I wanted to explore this further, let he and Vaun and even Lar have a discussion about their past lovers and sex lives and such ( when Vaun and Lar were human, of course lol ) and Quinlan getting to talk to them about Tasa and Sura, and how the marriage wasn’t consummated, etc.  This was just one of many things I wanted to write about that I didn’t get around to doing/didn’t have a good place to fit it in.  The open ending I left gives me a chance to maybe write that scene one day…  No promises, though, lol.  My muse is fickle. 

> Once they head West, he comes into ownership of a matchlock firearm, a fine weapon, much improved from the arquebus he’d used a couple centuries ago in the Turkish Empire.  However, upon bringing it back to the nest and around the rest of the strigoi, it becomes apparent that none of the others have even seen a firearm before, much less fired one. 

This is technically a little early for the matchlock to be in Europe from what I researched.  But I wanted the nest to be headed west, then down to Egypt on a certain timeline.  The matchlock had already been researched and was in other areas at this time, though, close enough, so I was kinda like… eh, whatevs.  I hope no history buffs were totally offended by this. 

> “No.  You did nothing wrong,” Vaun says.  His claw-like fingernails dig gently into Quinlan’s skin, and he purrs again before adding, “But please remember.  I’ve led this nest for the past six centuries.  You may be older than I, stronger than I—Born.  But this is my nest, these are my siblings.”
> 
> Quinlan’s hands find Vaun’s chest and he rattles back, mirroring the other’s posture and sounds.  His heart seems to be beating so heart, and he shuts his eyes as he feels Vaun easing closer, repositioning the blankets around them.  He’s forced to move his hands as Vaun presses them chest to chest, and so his one hand finds the other’s throat while the other rests on his side.  He tries to think over the other’s words, but none of it makes any sense.
> 
> Vaun trills softly, before continuing.  “I still speak for Them.  You must defer to me when They have given me orders—after all, They cannot speak to you.”

Touching base on that ‘unique bond’—I never explained it definitively in the fic as I don’t think Quinlan ever truly understands the uniqueness/ intensity of their relationship during this fic.  But even though Quinlan is the dominant and views Vaun as his subordinate, he also takes orders from Vaun when it comes from the Ancients.  And I think this balance of power between them is what really makes their relationship special.  Quinlan is not completely superior over Vaun—at first it’s the Ancients’ backing that gives Vaun that edge of power, forces Quinlan to view Vaun as almost an equal.  And hundreds and hundreds of years later when the Ancients died…  Well, Vaun’s the only one left that that point, and they both are comfortable in their places and rolls. 

And as far as the dom/sub thing—not sexual at all, obviously.  It’s meant to be more animalistic than anything else.  A lot packs/herds/etc of animals have a singular leader or highest ranking individual—the Alpha—with another being ‘second in command’—the Beta.  ( Sound familiar?  Vaun and Lar, at least before Quinlan… )  More interesting animal facts, when two alphas share power within the group, they are considered an ‘alpha pair’…  Once again, sound familiar?  ;)

Also, first naked cuddling scene… <3<3<3

> …Instead of wearing black coats with hoods, leaving their faces exposed, they take to wrapping their entire heads and faces in shawls during the day, only allowing space for their eyes to peak through.  And while it is no longer the fashion in Egyptian cities, they darken the exposed area around their eyes with kohl to keep the sun’s glare from blinding them.  

This was totally self-indulgent on my part.  I just loved the mental image of them traipsing around the desert in all black, knee-high boots and harem pants, traditional tunic/vest combos and [lithums](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Litham).  And of course, the black kohl—can you imagine Quinlan’s pretty silvery eyes smeared with kohl?  Mmmhmm…  XD

> Vaun’s skin is hotter than usual where he’s curled against Quinlan’s chest, and he’s kicked the blankets off of them and to the side.  Normally Quinlan would mind being so exposed, but they are mostly alone in the nesting chamber, save for another two strigoi woven together in the opposite corner.  That, and Quinlan is hot as well.  So very hot…

I was admittedly very self-indulgent with this, too.  I just want them to cuddle, okay?  Every day, all the time, all the cuddling.  After fucking everything Quinlan’s been through, he deserves to have a good cuddle-buddy.  So does Vaun, at that.  So, indulge me and all my cuddling strig lol.  :P

This was why I tagged it M/M as well.  I possibly could have tagged gen, with just Quinlan & Vaun…  But I didn’t want to mislead anyone into thinking there wasn’t going to be _any_ intimacy at all.  I’m personally not someone who looks only for gen fics, so I don’t know what crosses the line between gen and not-gen.  But I felt like this did, so…  M/M it was.

> Nestmate.  Singular, not plural.  He’s speaking directly to Quinlan, not the entire group.  And while Quinlan’s first instinct is to lash out at the insubordinate—had Lar tried to give him such instruction, he would most likely have turned around and backhanded the creature…  But his human sentience seems to catch up with him instantaneously, making him pause.  Insubordinate?  What…?

I feel like his reaction here is written kinda strongly, considering the relationship between he and Vaun I was going for.  I dunno, maybe not…  In the same paragraph, it is specifically stated that he would have reacted differently if Lar had spoken to him the same way so…  Obviously making a distinction between his relationship with Vaun and his relationship with the others.  Still, I’m not sure his knee-jerk reaction should have been to think of Vaun as an insubordinate, or even specifically a ‘submissive’ later on.  Though at the same time their relationship _is_ complicated—a give and take between them of authority.  So, especially considering this is the first time Quinlan is actually becoming consciously aware of his authority over the nest, perhaps it’s not too strong of a reaction…  I’m conflicted about my writing here, I suppose lol.

> He hears Vaun shriek from behind him, but Quinlan doesn’t glance back.  He can’t—if they continue to falter they will miss their chance here.  Or worse yet, they will all perish here in this godsforsaken tomb.  “Move!” Quinlan grates out, directing his brothers.  “Take out the musketeers first, then worry about the others.”
> 
> “Make ready!” Vaun calls from behind him, their signal to duck and dodge their own friendly fire.  Quinlan stumbles into the wall of the tunnel, bending down as far as his burning stomach will allow, and prepares to be hit in the shoulder from behind.  “Fire!”

I both hate and suck at writing action sequences.  I’m much better at (and enjoy ) writing dialogue and ‘the feels’…  So I of course feel like this whole section of gunfire and fighting in the tunnel sucks—just like the fighting and explosion later on in the next scene.  I tried, I promise, lol.  I don’t understand how the George R.R. Martin’s of this world write these intricate, suspenseful battle scenes that make you feel immersed in it all.  Oh well, I’ll just continue to try to write as much dialogue and ‘feels’ as I can, and keep the fighting to a minimum…  lol

> “I can’t…  It’s so quiet.  They’re gone?” he says.  Then, before Quinlan can offer an answer, “They’re gone.  They’re all gone.  Ó guð minn…”  Oh my god…

I did my best to explain and show exactly what this was like for Vaun, but of course the fic is written third person limited following Quinlan, so everything is viewed through his eyes.  Which made it hard to show just how deeply painful this was for Vaun.  He’s spent 1200 years—looking through this, I realize it was never mentioned when he was turned, personal canon is in the 800’s—so 1200 years listening to Them.  And I feel like the noise didn’t really have an ‘off switch’.  Even when They weren’t talking directly to Vaun, he could basically hear radio chatter in the background—he could hear Them talking to his brothers and talking to each other, maybe even talking to Themselves occasionally.  And then suddenly everything is just quiet, nothing there—I mean, not only did he love his Creator like a father and loved his brothers like family, all of whom just died, but then there is just this deafening silence surrounding him.  He doesn’t really know how to cope at first, hence his behavior immediately after the explosion and that first day at the hotel with Quinlan…  And I’m sure there are times after that, months after even, that he just sits there in the quiet like--????????!!!!!!!  ( Another one of those things I’d love to explore further… in the Continuing Adventures of Q & V! Hehehe ) At least he still has Quinlan.

> Vaun trills in reply, grabbing the lapels of Quinlan’s coat to drag himself closer.  And the slide of thigh against thigh, the press of chest against chest, the warmth of Vaun’s face pressed into the soft skin of Quinlan’s throat—it’s all so wonderfully, heartbreakingly familiar.  Quinlan throws an arm around Vaun’s waist, holding him close, and Vaun rattles loudly, continuously, as if trying to drown out the silence in his head. 
> 
> “I am here now,” Quinlan repeats to him.  “I am here now, and we will finish this together.”

I enjoyed writing the end of this for purely selfish reasons…  They finally get to lie down and ‘nest’ together after all that time apart, and finally comfort each other and find comfort in each other—something they’ve both been dying to do since they first laid eyes on each other in Part 1 in the Ancients’ chamber.  Quinlan admits to this at the end, but I feel like it was especially true for Vaun as well.  As soon as Quinlan walked in there and Vaun recognized him, every instinctual drive Vaun had was screaming at him to just surrender—Vaun was severely injured at that time, and Quinlan’s older, stronger, someone he can and moreover _has_ looked to for protection and comfort in the past.  And finally, _finally_ they get the chance to find solace in each other here in this scene.

Also, I was trying to leave some suspense for Part 4 with that last line—‘we finish this together’.  Will they live or will they die?  Well, I don’t do sad endings, sorry.  I just can’t do the tragic hero shit.  Everyone must live happily ever after! Or at least, live contently together in their inner turmoil… lol

> The other three humans are staring at them in absolute shock.  Fet thankfully lowers his weapon, but Quinlan can only imagine how he and Vaun look.  Covered in dirt and dust, their firearms and his sword tossed aside, lying on the floor—and even though they’ve repositioned themselves in their hunt for weapons, they’re still incredibly close together.  Their stomachs and groins are pressed together, one of his thighs slid between Vaun’s, their legs intertwined. 

Once again, incredibly self-indulgent.  I just love the idea of all the others guys ( and our one lone gal ) seeing this ‘other’ Quinlan—you know, nestmate Quinlan, affectionate and protective and _actually close to someone_.  And they’re all like, ‘wtf is going on here?’  As stated further on, they mistake it for a romantic relationship as opposed to the instinctual bond that it is.  And this is yet another thing I would love to explore further, letting the rest of the gang get to witness the ‘Continuing Adventures of Q  & V’—letting them get to know both Quinlan and Vaun _together_.  Fun stuff.

> Vaun growls at him in reply, and says, “Then you will be forced to do away with me.”  Quinlan growls back with those words, but Vaun isn’t deterred, “If you leave me again, I will come for you.  Know that.  I am not going to go through that… bereavement… again.”

This is the actual threat here, I hope that was clear.  Vaun isn’t under any illusions that he can even remotely take Quinlan in a fight, nor would he ever actually try to end Quinlan’s life.  The threat was specifically ‘if you leave again, then you’ll have to kill me.’  Suicidal, really, but Vaun is in a really shitty place here.  I feel like Quinlan is the only thing that gets him through those next few weeks.

As for the next flashback, where he actually leaves the nest… I’m honestly really disappointed with it.  I feel like it came out very anticlimactic—just an argument and he storms out.  I tried to rework it several times, but I could never get it where I wanted it.  I dunno.  The point is there—he realizes he’s become something that scares him, part of the hivemind of the nest.  And not thinking about the fact that he has a small militia of strigoi backing him, that his entire situation is actually pretty damn great…  He flees.  But like I said… anticlimactic. 

> “I heard my name,” Vaun says, appearing as if on cue.  Quinlan turns toward his voice, finds the other just behind him.  He’s showered and dressed now—clothed in the same grungy tactical pants as the night before, though he’s traded in the black shirt and combat vest for one of Quinlan’s clean hooded sweatshirts.  The garment is too large for him, and it hangs off him, making him look so very small. 

His entrance here just kills me lol.  Looking back, I feel like Quinlan just left Vaun in the shower, walked out to talk to Abraham, said one sentence…  And then Vaun pops up like, “Hey guys, I showered and dressed in under 1 minute, are you impressed?!”  Like, the timing is horrible, lol.  I’m so sorry guys, I suck. 

> “My loyalty was to Them first, then to you.  You had to have known that,” Vaun says, but then shakes his head.  “No, I let myself forget sometimes that you’re indeed part human—but then your ego can be astounding.”
> 
> And Quinlan itches to smack him again over that comment, except Dutch pipes up uncertainly.  “Guys, guys,” she says, voice timid.  “Can we, like, try to get along?  I mean, things are shitty enough right now without all the yelling and… hitting.”
> 
> “Mmm, maybe,” Vaun says, hand coming up to rub at his cheek.  “Maybe, if this one can listen to me…”

The dialogue here was so fun to write, getting to explore some of this power play between both Quinlan and Vaun—for all of their snuggles and pet names, they’re still two violent creatures sharing this balance of authority…  I think it would be silly to think their relationship is always gentle and peaceful.  But also, it was great getting to have a conversation including both Quinlan and Vaun, as well as Abraham and Dutch.  As I mentioned earlier, I want to be able to write more of this—more of the rest of the gang getting to experience Quinlan and Vaun together.  Perhaps later…

> “Vinr,” Vaun purrs softly, squeezing Quinlan’s shoulders.  “Do not leave me again.  Ég elska þig.“
> 
> Quinlan’s heart swells with those words, and he finds himself digging his nails into Vaun’s chest, trilling lovingly.  “Te amo, frater…  Rest easy, I am here.”
> 
> “Te amo.”

And…  I suck at endings.  I feel like that’s all I need to say about that.

 

Anyway…  Like I said numerous times already, I’d really like to write more in this universe—probably follow the general storyline of the canon with some tweaks to allow for my personal canon… and to allow for the cinnamon rolls to not die.  I kinda want to wait until the season is over to see where the show goes—what else happens, who lives and who dies there.  Also, I work full time and just started fall semester at college, so…  Time is kinda short.  Which is why I wanted to go ahead and wrap this up now—just in case I don’t get the chance to write again for months and months or something.  I intend to continue though, I do…

Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented!  I love each and every one of you! <3

 


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